


Both Sides Now

by QED_Scribblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Bullying, Child Abuse, Divorce, Funeral, Sibling Rivalry, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QED_Scribblings/pseuds/QED_Scribblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock didn't meet until Sherlock was 7, Mycroft lived with his abusive father. Sherlock doesn't learn of the abuse until years later</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [De l'autre côté](https://archiveofourown.org/works/548391) by [Hanako_Hayashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanako_Hayashi/pseuds/Hanako_Hayashi)



CHAPTER ONE

  
_As far as Sherlock was concerned, interesting things just didn't seem to happen around him.  
  
It certainly wasn't down to lack of trying, because he had  tried everything, from blowing up the oven (using just his flashlight, his pocket knife, copious amounts of whipped cream and a tea spoon) to preforming psychological experiments on Mummy's horridly boring guests (namely, painting numerous smiley faces on the inside of the toilet bowl to see if no less than 52 little eyes staring up at their rears would discourage the messy gits from using it).  
  
And though those experiment shad certainly been entertaining, so much so Sherlock would sometimes go so far as to quietly consider them downright fun,  none of them had ever really gone so far as to be truly interesting.  
  
As such, when some flashy car (Rolls Royce, charcoal, latest model, rubbish muffler though,  he could hear it approaching about a mile off) screeched to a halt out front of his house just long enough for a boy (teenage, ginger, tallish but hasn't had a growth spurt for a while, so no doubt due to get taller) to be all but thrown out onto the drive, before speeding off again, he was beyond excited.  
  
This had never happened before. This was new. This was (dare he say it) interesting.  
  
"Sherlock what was that?" his mother asked, calling from her study down the hall.  
  
Jumping off of his bed and pulling on his boots, Sherlock shouted back, "Rolls Royce with a broken muffler Mummy!"  
  
"Alright," Mummy called back. "They're gone now?"  
  
"Yep!" Sherlock called skidding out of his room. "I'm going outside o-"  
  
The doorbell rang.  
  
Oh this was beautiful.  
  
The boy from the car was at the door. Why was he there? Why was he kicked out in the first place? Maybe he wasn't kicked out at all. Maybe he was injured and that's why he fell. Maybe he was on a run from the police and his partner decided to split up to avoid capture. What did they do? Maybe they held up a bank? Oh! Does that mean he might be armed? It would have to be a gun wouldn't it? You can't properly hold up a bank with a knife.  
  
Oh this was brilliant!  
  
The doorbell rang again.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Getting it!" Sherlock cried, grinning ear to ear.  
  
Tearing the rest of the way down the hall and leaping down the stairs four at a time (not even coming close to breaking his neck by the way, whether Mummy believed it or not) he was at the front door in seconds.  
  
Yanking the door open he found… well that's disappointing. No gun. No threats. Not even the tiniest stab wound. This sucked!  
  
"Um, hello…" The boy murmured, looking quite taken aback by Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock thought that was odd. People usually gave him that look after he started talking, not before.  
  
He had bags too. Why did he have bags? People usually ask before they have sleepovers (from what Sherlock had heard at least) and this boy was a lot younger than all of the men Mummy occasionally let sleep over.  
  
They were really full too. Not an overnight bag.  
  
Why was he here? Who was he? What was going on?  
  
"Ca-… Could I speak to your mother please?"  
  
Sherlock frowned.  
  
What does this weirdo want with Mummy? What was wrong with just talking to him? That's not fair! The first interesting thing to happen around here **ever** and the idiot wants Mummy! Not fair at all!  
  
Taking the aforementioned injustice of the situation into account, Sherlock decided that it would be best to handle the situation in the same manner he handled the same way he did every time people were being unbearable, he'd be as difficult as possible.  
  
Crossing his arms over his puffed out chest, he slyly replied, "Well that all depends, doesn't it?"  
  
The boy frowned.  
  
Sherlock grinned. 'Point I' to him.  
  
"I'm sorry," said the boy. "Depends on what?"  
  
"Whether I think you should see her or not," Sherlock answered with a smug smirk. "I'm the man of the house you see. Mummy said so herself. That means it's my job to keep her safe. What if you're dangerous, huh? I wouldn't be doing my job would I? If I just let you walk in without being sure you're alright."  
  
"Yes, well - I assure you I'm not dangerous," the boy replied distractedly.  
  
Sherlock scowled. The git was glancing over the top of his head.  
  
Well he would not be having any of that, thank you very much. Stepping out onto the porch, forcing the boy to stumble back so as to not have Sherlock run into him, he slammed the front door shut (with a really quite satisfyingly loud bang).  
  
"Wouldn't want you getting too distracted," he drawled, leaning against the polished timber.  
  
The boy sighed.  
  
"Can you please let me in?" he grumbled, "I'm not dangerous."  
  
"I'm supposed to just take your word for it?" Sherlock scoffed.  
  
"Look I'm really not in the mood for this."  
  
"I don't care," Sherlock retorted.  
  
"Clearly," the boy muttered.  
  
"Let's start from the top shall we? What's your name?"  
  
"For goodness sake."  
  
"That's an interesting name."  
  
"Are you always this rude to people who knock on the door, or is it just me?"  
  
"Please," Sherlock scoffed, "Don't flatter yourself. I do this to everyone."  
  
"Good to know."  
  
"Stop stalling. What's your name?"  
  
The boys sighed.  
  
"Can you just let me in please?"  
  
"Can you just tell me who you are?" Sherlock snapped back, refusing to budge, "And tell me what the you want with my Mummy?"  
  
However, before either the boy could reply or Sherlock could put more questions to him, the door was swung open and Mummy stepped out herself.  
  
"Sherlock," she scolded, taking his hand and pulling him back inside the house. "What have I told you about being rude whilst answering the door?"  
  
Stuffing his hands into his pockets with a huff, Sherlock moodily replied, "Same thing you said about being rude answering the phone and talking to people in the shops."  
  
"And that was?"  
  
Sherlock sighed.  
  
"Don't be," he muttered bitterly.  
  
"Good boy," Mummy replied, ruffling his hair. "Now you go sit over there whilst I see to this young man, oh come in dear."  
  
Dragging his feet so to show how unimpressed he was with the turn this situation has taken, Sherlock grudgingly did as he was told, making his way over to the bench that stood beside the staircase and sitting down with a huff.  
  
"Thank you," Mummy laughed, a fond smile spread across her pretty face (but that trick wouldn't work this time. Sherlock was determined to be angry).  
  
He had half a mind to poke his tongue out, so to make his opinion of the matter absolutely clear; but decided against it.  
  
Little good it would have done anyway, as Mummy had, by that point, already turned back to the other boy (whom Sherlock had officially decided was incredibly dull, in spite all of his potential).  
  
"I'm so sorry about him," she said, smiling at the idiot. "He's a little too outspoken for his own good sometimes I'm afraid."  
  
"Yes, I can see that," the boy said, or croaked more like.  
  
Sherlock frowned and leaned to the side so to get a better look at him. He'd gone pale, and Sherlock could see his hands shaking as they clutched at some official looking papers as if they were a lifeline. Had he had those before? How'd he not noticed them? Who cares? More importantly, why was he so nervous?  
  
Mummy seemed to be curious about that too.  
  
"Are you alright dear?" she asked. "You look a little unwell."  
  
The boy cleared his throat, opened his mouth to say something, and then cleared it again when that didn't work.  
  
"I'm fine," he eventually rasped. "Thank you, but I'm just… well, a little nervous truth be told."  
  
"Why's that dear?" Mummy asked.  
  
Sherlock would quite like to know as well.  
  
The boy did the throat clearing thing again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
Mummy took pity on him.  
  
"Take your time dear, it's alright. Are those papers for me?"  
  
Nodding shakily, the boy handed them over.  
  
Mummy smiled, took them, and started to read them through.  
  
A second later, she gasped so loud Sherlock almost fell off the bench in alarm.  
  
"What?" he cried, leaping to the ground and running over to the pair, ready to kick the idiot for upsetting his mum. "What is it?"  
  
Mummy was still clutching the papers when she looked up at the boy, who was chewing nervously at his lip.  
  
"Is this true?" she asked, voice gone hoarse.  
  
The boy nodded, not even trying to speak this time.  
  
"Mycroft?" Mummy whispered, reaching up and stroking the boys cheek like she always did with Sherlock. "Baby is that you?"  
  
Baby? What? What was she calling him that for? Sherlock was terribly confused.  
  
And things only got more confusing when the boy, squeezing his eyes shut, nodded again.  
  
Mummy practically attacked him, hugging him and kissing his forehead and crying 'My Baby, My Baby' over and over again.  
  
Sherlock stood and watched the display before him with wide eyes.  
  
What the hell was going on here?!  
  
The boy was hugging Mummy back, and blubbering something into her shoulder.  
  
Finally, after almost **five hundred years** of hugs and kisses, Mummy and the boy pulled apart.  
  
Sherlock's spirits lifted. Maybe he was going to leave now. And about time too. He had to have a word with his mother about hugging complete strangers like that; those hugs were only for him.  
  
Wiping her eyes (he had upset her!) Mummy held out her hand for Sherlock, who, glaring up at the boy, took it and tucked himself against her side.  
  
"Sherlock honey," she murmured, pressing a kiss against his temple. "I want you to meet someone."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  
  
"Baby, this is your big brother – Mycroft. Mycroft sweetheart, this is your baby brother, Sherlock."  
  
Brother? Oh hell… this was not good._   
  


* * *

  
  
"And I was having such a lovely day," Sherlock sighed, melodramatic as ever, the second Mycroft walked through the door of 221B.  
  
"Lovely to see you too Sherlock," Mycroft retorted with a tight smile, the professional one – oh dear he was here on business.  
  
"I won't do it," Sherlock announced, crossing his arms and glaring benevolently up at his guest. "I absolutely refuse."  
  
Mycroft sighed. He looked tired. Sherlock didn't care though.  
  
"I've not even told you what it is yet," he huffed, dropping down into John's vacant arm chair. "It's not as if you've got a case occupying your time."  
  
"I'm sure there's something," Sherlock sniped. "The answers still no."  
  
"This is important Sherlock," Mycroft insisted.  
  
"It always is."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
  
"Sherlock, please try to act your age, just this once."  
  
"Try though I might I'm afraid my answer remains unchanged," Sherlock quipped, with a smug smirk spread across his face.  
  
Mycroft's brow twitched upwards in disbelief but he said no more.  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
"Check and mate I'd say," he murmured, plucking imaginary lint off of his cuffs.  
  
"Would you really?" Mycroft scoffed.  
  
"Get out Mycroft. I have no business with you."  
  
"Actually," Mycroft murmured. "I think you'll find that, just this once, you're quite mistaken."  
  
"I certainly am no-"  
  
"Aunt Agnolia is dead Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock's words died in his throat.  
  
That was… unexpected. It probably shouldn't be, but it was.  
  
He sighed.  
  
Though, truth be told, he'd never been particularly fond of Aunt Magnolia, he was saddened by the news. Mummy would be devastated.  
  
"She passed away in the early hours of this morning. Mummy called me."  
  
Sherlock frowned.  
  
"She didn't call me," he murmured.  
  
"She was distraught Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "She tried to, but you were out of reach."  
  
"I was working a case."  
  
"Yes. I said as much," Mycroft sighed, scrubbing tiredly at his face. "She asked me to tell you. She was too distressed to break the news a second time herself."  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
"Well now I know. You can leave," he muttered bitterly, rooting for his mobile. "I'm going to give her a call. See if she's calmed down."  
  
Mycroft frowned.  
  
"Her sister's just died Sherlock. Be delicate," he warned.  
  
Sherlock decided not to dignify that instruction with a response. He needn't have. The glare he fixed Mycroft with spoke for itself.  
  
"Of course you knew that already," Mycroft conceded with a put upon sigh.  
  
"Get out," Sherlock hissed.  
  
"I will," Mycroft replied. "But I have just one more thing to add."  
  
"Then do it quickly and leave," Sherlock snapped.  
  
Mycroft hesitated for a moment longer, before slowly announcing, "Mummy doesn't think she can attend the funeral. She'll visit Auntie's grave once she feels ready, but for now… she wants us to attend on her behalf. Both of us."  
  
Sherlock froze.  
  
"I tried to reason with her Sherlock," Mycroft sighed. "But she was adamant. She says that it would overwhelm her and she's afraid she'll make a fool of herself. Those are her words by the way, before you attack me for them."  
  
Sherlock snapped his mouth shut with an audible click; however the scowl remained in place.  
  
"I think it would be best if we honoured her wishes on this," Mycroft murmured, meeting Sherlock's disapproving glare. "She really was quite distressed."  
  
"Are you sure that it wasn't simply talking to you that was what was distressing her so much?" Sherlock sneered.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes.  
  
"No, you're right. Her beloved little sister succumbing to cancer probably had nothing to do with it now I think about it."  
  
"Oh shut up Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped, huffing moodily.  
  
Mycroft sniffed, clearly unimpressed.  
  
"You can handle it on your own," Sherlock muttered, a tad sulkily. "I shouldn't have to be there. Auntie never really liked me all that much anyway."  
  
"Are you really that selfish?" Mycroft sneered, eyes narrowed, "Mummy wants us both there, representing her so she can cope with her loss privately whilst having her feelings regarding the matter known. She asks so little of us. I'm sure even you can manage this small favour."  
  
Sherlock scowled.  
  
"I don't need your lectures in regards to what's best for our Mother Mycroft," he hissed, before a malicious smirk spreading slowly across his face. "I know her far better than you after all. Remember?"  
  
Mycroft's grip upon the handle of his umbrella was so tight his knuckles were practically luminescent.  
  
"Well then," he replied in a gratifyingly stiff manner. "I needn't have been concerned."  
  
"No," Sherlock sniffed. "You needn't have been."  
  
"I'll have a car around for you tomorrow then. Be ready by nine."  
  
"What?" Sherlock snarled.  
  
"You'll of course be accompanying me to _Vernet Manor_ ," Mycroft sternly replied as he stood from the armchair. "As it means so much to Mummy, something you _must_ , of course, have already known. You know her so much better than I do after all."  
  
If looks could kill the Holmes family would be suffering from the loss of another member, for the glare Sherlock had fixed Mycroft with was nothing if not poisonous. Sliding his mobile open with a snap, Sherlock hissed once more, "Get. Out."  
  
"You'll be ready by nine?" Mycroft asked.  
  
"We'll see," Sherlock snapped. "Now get out."  
  
"Sherlock. We need to do this together," Mycroft implored. "Can't you just put this pettiness aside for once?"  
  
Eye narrowed into slits, Sherlock heatedly replied, "I'll call Mummy and assess the situation for myself-"  
  
"Sherlock-"  
  
"And if I deem it necessary, then yes, I will attend on her behalf. And if you choose to do so as well – then it really doesn't make the slightest difference to me."  
  
Mycroft sighed.  
  
"Now – the doors right over there Brother-Mine. Kindly deposit your considerable mass someplace outside of it whilst I sort matters out with Mummy."  
  
"Don't upset her Sherlock."  
  
"I won't," Sherlock replied, smirking. "I know how to handle these things properly, unlike you. I know her better after all."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

  
_Sherlock had researched this 'brother' business. From what he'd read so far, he didn't want a bar of it.  
  
Apparently big brothers could push you around, be mean to you, tell you what to do, blame things on you, make you do things for them and they thought they were smarter than you and better than you simply because they were older, bigger and willing to bully you until you accepted it.  
  
And Mycroft wasn't disproving any of his research thus far.  
  
Okay, so maybe he didn't push him around or blame things on him, or make him do things for him… but he was still labouring under the delusion that he was smarter and better than Sherlock, and that he had some right, simply because he was older, to tell him what to do, how to do it and when to do it – like he was his boss or something. Sherlock Holmes had no boss! He was his own boss! He'd not be ordered around by stupid, boring Mycroft.  
  
What was he even doing here anyway? Big brothers weren't supposed to just pop out of the woodworks like this. Sure Mummy had mentioned his having a big brother once or twice over the years, she always got really sad about it though. Sherlock had assumed he'd died.  
  
Sitting at the dinner table, in a seat that was most empathetically not his due to Mycroft's going and taking his one before Sherlock could (he shouldn't have to inform him the seat was his, it was clear that it was his. It had his cushion on it, an S was carved underneath it, it was more used than all of the other chairs were and it was closest to Mummy. Who did he think he was?) Sherlock couldn't help but think that it might have been better if Mycroft had died before he, Sherlock, had been born.  
  
"Sherlock, sit up straight," Mycroft whispered as Mummy made her way down the hall, having popped into the study before dinner.  
  
Sherlock scowled and slouched lower in his seat, taking pleasure in how it seemed to rile Mycroft up.  
  
He'd investigated this sudden appearance, naturally. But Mummy had burnt the letter father wrote to her with all of the explanations on it. She'd said it was foul and the Mycroft had no business dwelling over what was on it.  
  
Sherlock had gathered the remains that night and set about deciphering what he could.  
  
Apparently Mycroft had done something, something really bad Sherlock assumed, which resulted in father disowning him and refusing to have him under the same roof, lest word got out.  
  
And although he didn't know what exactly it was Mycroft had done, he had decided that if it was enough to warrant his eviction from one household surely it would be enough to warrant the eviction from a second. Sherlock resolved to be ever vigilant for when his brother did inevitably repeat his supposedly heinous crime, so as to catch him in the act. He'd have to be really careful he didn't end up hurting Mummy.  
  
"Sherlock sit up please," Mycroft hissed again.  
  
"Piss off," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Language Sherlock," Mummy scolded as she swept in. "And do sit up darling, you can hardly enjoy your soup lying on the chair like that."  
  
Huffing, Sherlock did as he was told and sat up properly.  
  
Mycroft was frowning, glancing between Mummy and Sherlock, clearly confused.  
  
What was he confused about? It's simple logic, the soup would go everywhere if he didn't.  
  
Oh, he was confused over why Sherlock had listened to Mummy and not him. Of course. Because he didn't have to listen to him, that's why. Sod this big brother business, Sherlock wasn't going to be ordered around by this control freak.  
  
He poked out his tongue whilst Mummy wasn't looking._   
  


* * *

  
  
Matters hadn't gone quite as well as Sherlock had hoped.  
  
Mummy had actually been a good deal more distraught that Mycroft had implied, and simply refused to be reasoned with. It didn't help that she'd already made all the arrangements with Aunt Scarlet, who'd promised to pick both Mycroft and Sherlock up from the Airfield they'd be landing in on one of Mycroft's borrowed private jets, on the outskirts of Orne. So there was no worming out of it. His presence had been reported, expected and was thus, inevitable.  
  
A marvellous problem-solver though he may be, Sherlock knew a hopeless case when he saw one. As such he'd be attending the funeral; whether he liked it or not.  
  
Come nine o'clock the next morning he was on the front step, full rucksack at his feet, and well on his way to frightening his 17th passer-by through expression alone (which could be described as, at best, stormy, and at worst, downright murderous.). So far he'd managed to strike terror into the souls of 6 school children, 4 neighbours, 3 customers from the bakery beneath his flat, 2 little old ladies and a yappy dog.  
  
"I see you're in a fine mood," Mycroft called the second his car rolled to a stop in front of him.  
  


Sherlock scowled.  
  
"We're on our way to a funeral," he spat as he dropped down into the seat beside his brother, "Joviality, I'm told, is inappropriate."  
  
Mycroft's brow quirked.  
  
"How very conventional of you," he murmured.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes but said no more.  
  
"No luck sorting matters out with Mummy?" Mycroft asked, his tone was innocent, although the amused smirk tugging at his lips was anything but.  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock snarled, drawing his legs up onto the leather seat, "She'd already made the arrangements. As you well know."  
  
"I did warn you," Mycroft sighed.  
  
"Oh just shut up," Sherlock sneered, before turning with a huff to stare moodily out of his window.  
  
It was clear to all that the conversation was over.  
  


* * *

  
  
_Sherlock had always been a light sleeper. So light in fact, that getting a full night's rest was a rarity worthy of celebration as he was more often than not woken up at some point by cars driving past the house, branches hitting the windows, or next door's cat howling for a mate on their lawn.  
  
This night, all it had taken was the switching on of the washing machine.  
  
Rolling over, he glanced at the clock.  
  
It was three in the morning, why would Mummy be doing the washing at three in the morning? She doesn't even like doing it at three in the afternoon.  
  
This required investigation.  
  
Pulling on his favourite nightgown, Sherlock slipped out of his cracked open door and padded down the hall to the laundry.  
  
Maybe he should have a weapon with him, in case someone had broken in. Stupid. Who would break in to do the washing? A psychopath obviously. Unlikely though. Still, maybe he should go back for his jack knife. No, definitely not. Uncle Tiberius had made him promise not to let Mummy know he had it until he was eleven. No knife then.  
  
It made little difference anyway, he was already there.  
  
Sherlock peaked around the corner.  
  
Of course it had to be Mycroft: ruiner of all things interesting. He should have gone back for the knife.  
  
He was sitting on an upturned bucket, a towel wrapped around his waist.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, walking in.  
  
Mycroft looked up, and Sherlock noticed his eyes were quite red.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Obviously. You didn't answer my question."  
  
"Nothing, go back to bed," Mycroft whispered. "It's late."  
  
"Early actually," Sherlock replied. "And you're not doing nothing. You're doing the washing. And why are you doing washing at three in the morning in nothing but a towel?"  
  
"Sherlock just go back to bed."  
  
A slow grin spread across Sherlock's face.  
  
"I think I know why," he whispered. "Did you wet the bed?"  
  
Mycroft flushed bright red and that was all the confirmation that Sherlock needed.  
  
He’d not been this delighted since his frog spawn hatched.  
  
"You did!" he hissed excitedly. "I'm telling mummy!"  
  
"No!" Mycroft yelped. "No Sherlock don't. Sherlock no – no please…"  
  
But Sherlock was off running.  
  
By the time he'd dragged Mummy out of bed and to the laundry, Mycroft was close to tears. He was shaking too, like a leaf Mummy would say, and hugging himself tight.  
  
Sherlock thought it was all very over dramatic. Sure Mummy could get a bit enthusiastic with the hugging and kissing when she thought you needed it (borderline smothering Sherlock sometimes considered it) but it wasn't anything to be terrified about, and Mycroft looked nothing if not terrified.  
  
"Darling?" Mummy whispered, stepping into the room, closer to Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft flinched.  
  
"I'm sorry," he squeaked. "I didn't mean to. I just… I had a nightmare and, I'm really sorry. I cleaned everything and I know it's no excuse but-"  
  
"Oh darling you don't have to be sorry," Mummy cried, flinging her arms around him. "It's alright. These things happen."  
  
Sherlock sniggered. Everything had gone according to plan, now Mummy will coo and cuddle Mycroft until the sun rose and if Mycroft knew what was good for him, he would stay out of arm’s length for the next few days, so to avoid that happening again. Mummy would be all Sherlock's whilst he did.  
  
And with that satisfying conclusion in mind, Sherlock decided it was time to take his leave, go to his room and salvage what was left of the night so he could enjoy a whole day's worth of hugs, kisses and attention tomorrow.  
  
And he would have done so with perfect contentment, if he had not lingered a second longer, which, incidentally, was all the time he needed to catch sight of something truly alarming.  
  
There were, shiny little lines peeking out the top of where Mycroft had tied the towel around his hips. Some long, some straight, some curling around his hip, all a light, shiny white… scars, they were scars.  
They weren't deep; Sherlock wouldn't have even spotted them if they'd not caught the light whilst he'd been looking that way. But why were they there? It didn’t make any sense.  
  
If they weren't deep, they wouldn’t be the result of some hitherto unmentioned operation, besides, he’d never heard of any medical procedure that would leave that sort of random scar pattern. He'd check just in case, but he was quite sure he was right about that._

_  
So what had caused them?  
  
Childhood accident? But again, he couldn't think of anything that would result in the variety of scars Mycroft had._

_What else?  
  
Well there was – no – but still – no surely not.  
  
The photo's they showed on the news, of that kid who got beaten to death by his step-father, they'd been… obviously more severe but… maybe they'd look like that if he'd ended up recovering. Surely there'd be other marks though, if that were the case. Maybe it didn't always break the skin. Now he thought of it, the boy in the picture was more bruised than bleeding wasn’t he? Bruises then. Well he'd not had any bruises or anything when he arrived, did he? Not on his face at least.   
  
Perhaps, just mayb… no. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid! This Was Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. His boring, big brother Mycroft. That sort of thing just didn't happen to people like him.  
  
Well what sort of people did it happen to? He didn't know. But definitely not Mycroft.  
  
Well what was it then? What else could it be? Well… it could be… Oh! Oh that's it. He was fat wasn't he? Well, not really, but he had gained weight since he'd moved in with them, hadn't he? And he was much bigger than Sherlock, wasn't he? Oh that makes much more sense.  
  
"Put some clothes on Fatcroft," he sneered, expertly hiding what remained of his discomfort over his earlier theory, "Nobody wants to see your stretch marks."  
  
The furious blush spread up Mycroft's neck and across his face was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to be reassured that he'd not be confronted with those worrisome blemishes again, innocent or not.  
  
He made a speedy getaway to his room, so to avoid Mummy's customary scolding regarding his violation of the name-calling rule.  
  
Running inside, he grabbed one of his best Science text books off the bookshelf (one of the one's he’d nicked from the library), fetched his torch and dove under the covers.  
  
He'd never get to sleep without a little distraction after that tiny rush.  
  
What a stupid thing to think, that someone had beaten those scars into Mycroft. Please. As if that would happen… to him of all people. He could see the appeal but really, why would they? Those sorts of things are usually punishments gone wrong, weren’t they? That's what people said at least, ‘Some people just take discipline too far’. You had to do interesting stuff to get punished and Mycroft didn't do anything interesting at all.  
  
The evidence, as it so often did, spoke for itself.  
  
Scolding himself for twisting the facts to suit an, admittedly fascinating but all together ridiculous theory, Sherlock, having read up to Einstein's theory of relativity, clicked off his torch, pulled the covers up to his chin and fell asleep hugging his book.  
  
Fatcroft had been a good one at least. He'd use that in future._   
  


* * *

  
  
The drive to the airfield was long and tense. The flight, even more so. By the time they touched down in Normandy it was midday and both brothers were already exhausted simply by the other's company.  
  
The arrival of dear Aunt Scarlet, lovely though she was, didn't help matters in the slightest.  
  
"It's so lovely to see the both of you," she gushed upon spotting them. "My god, how you've grown."  
  
"Mycroft certainly has," Sherlock scoffed, allowing himself to be strangled by the enthusiastic relative. "Not any taller though."  
  
Mycroft sighed and announced he'd go fetch their bags.  
  
Aunt Scarlet, who'd been too busy squeezing the life out of him and announcing in increasingly shrill French how glad she was to see him, had not heard his comment, so he didn't even get a half-hearted scolding for it. Sherlock decided that the visit may not be as bad as he'd feared.  
  
Half of the family were already at the manor by the time he, Aunt Scarlet and Mycroft arrived. They were just in time for lunch, which was being served out in the court-yard so everybody could mingle ('Around the table is just so formal dear,' Aunt Scarlet trilled, 'Certainly not the way to remember such a unique a spirit as dear Aggi').  
  
They made their rounds there, Mycroft Mummy's mouthpiece and Sherlock the solemn presence backing it up. Sherlock could do solemn quite well, after all, people always seemed to mistake a put-upon air for a sombre one.  
  
By one, everyone had been given their own unique rendition of the 'Mummy's so sorry she couldn't be here. It's just so difficult for her, as it is with everyone, of course. We all have our methods of coping don't we?' speech by Mycroft, sometimes with an added hum or mournful sigh from Sherlock and both brothers were relatively convinced that their Mother had been forgiven for her absence.  
  
Two to three o'clock was spent in the living room, sharing memories of Aunt Agnolia. Sherlock almost fell asleep four times.  
  
Three o'clock was spent enjoying a brief afternoon tea before leading on to the Four o'clock to five period, where everyone sipped wine and discussed the rest of the family: which cousins had finished school; which hadn't; who was travelling and who was studying; how was so-and-so's job going? Yes I always knew he'd make a fine banker.  
  
Sherlock actually did fall asleep in the middle of that conversation.  
  
Dinner was set to be served at about half past six, so at last, Mycroft and Sherlock were shown to the rooms their belongings had been taken whilst they'd been swept off to socialise.  
  
Sherlock had been looking forward to that. At last, a little time to himself.  
  
Naturally, the second that heavenly notion so much as crossed his mind, his dear aunt promptly announced that due to the number of people spending the night ('We should all be together at a time like this') he and Mycroft were going to have to share.  
  
Mycroft had to step on top of his foot (practically crushing it, the fat git) to stop Sherlock from voicing his complaints.  
  
"If you think I'm going to spend the night sleeping next to you," Sherlock hissed the second Aunt Scarlet's heels could be heard clopping down the stairs, "You've got another thing coming."  
  
"I hear the other side of Grandmama's bed is free," Mycroft muttered as he set about unpacking his bag.  
  
Sherlock gagged.  
  
"That's not even funny."  
  
"I confess, denture-duty and that tendency of sleeping in the nude are somewhat of a draw back?" Mycroft mused, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.  
  
"At least she doesn't wet the bed," Sherlock retorted.  
  
The smirk dropped in an instant.  
  
"You don't still do that do you?" Sherlock asked, enjoying the turning tables. "Piss yourself in your sleep that is."  
  
Mycroft scowled.  
  
"That's not funny," he replied with forced calm.

 

Sherlock grinned. Only he could make the Ice-Man’s blood boil.  
  
"That's not an answer," he innocently replied.  
  
Snatching a book from his bag, (Nineteen Eighty-Four, how sentimental) Mycroft snapped, "No Sherlock, I do not. I have not in over three decades."  
  
"That remains to be seen."  
  
"Would you just stop?"  
  
"Bed wetting and now temper tantrums, what a regression _Brother-Dear_."  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
"Oh I've upset you," he yawned, flopping onto the mattress. "So sorry. Tell you what, why don't you run along now? Read your little book, perhaps if you're really good Auntie might give you a biscuit. There's a good chap."  
  
Mycroft took a deep, calming breath.  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
"Very well then," he drawled. "Why don’t you have a little sleep whilst I'm out. You're always so cranky when you miss your afternoon nap."  
  
Sherlock scoffed.  
  
"A passable effort to save face," he murmured, flipping onto his stomach and yawning again. "But a weak one I'm afraid."  
  
"Accurate though," Mycroft pointed out.  
  
"Whatever."  
  
"I'll come fetch you when dinner's ready shall I?"  
  
"Be sure to ask the big kids for help if you get stuck with some of the words."  
  
"I'll take that as a yes."  
  


* * *

  
  
_Sherlock had given up all hope. Mycroft wasn't criminally insane; he was just as boring as mud.  
  
Perhaps he attempted to lecture father to death and that's why he refused to house him any longer. Sherlock didn't blame him, if he had the ability, he'd kick Mycroft out as well.  
  
He was just so annoying. He stuck his nose into absolutely everything. For instance, he was always telling Sherlock to stop running. Just because he was lazy didn't mean Sherlock had to be for goodness sake. What was wrong with running anyway? Lots of people ran. People made careers out of running. Sherlock intended to do a lot of running when he grew up, like a police officer or one of those super spies on the telly, they were always running after something or someone.  
  
He'd tried to explain this to Mycroft. Admittedly he'd been a little angry when he'd made this attempt but Mycroft had ruined one of his most promising attempts at beating his own record – running from one end of the house to the other as many times he could in a single minute. He was just approaching lap six when Mycroft stepped in the way.  
  
"It's not training," he said, "It's going to get you in trouble."  
  
"What, with you?" Sherlock scoffed, kicking his shins, before jumping back and raising his fists like his boxing instructor had shown him. "Come on then. I'll let you have the first swing."  
  
Mycroft looked aghast.  
  
"I'm not going to hit you," he said.  
  
"Well get out of my way or I'll hit you," Sherlock replied, taking a few practice jabs to show that he could.  
  
Mycroft sighed.  
  
"You can't run in the house Sherlock."  
  
"Yes I can. I was just then, and I will the second you get out of my way."  
  
"I'm trying to keep you out of trouble," Mycroft insisted.  
  
"Who's going to get me in trouble?" Sherlock yelled. "This is my house. I can run in it if I want to."  
  
"No it's not," Mycroft hissed. "It's mother's house. She pays the bills. It's her name on the papers. She makes the rules and we have to follow them, whether we like them or not and that's just how it is."  
  
"You're such a pain in the arse Mycroft."  
  
"Sherlock don't swear!" Mycroft whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "What if Mother-"  
  
"She likes to be called Mummy!"  
  
"What if Mummy heard you?"  
  
"So what if she heard me?!" Sherlock groaned. "She always tells me to tell the truth and even she probably knows by now you're just a Stupid. Pain. In. The. Arse!"  
  
"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed, glancing down the hall again.  
  
Sherlock pushed him whilst he was distracted, forcing him to stumble backwards.  
  
Grinning ear to ear, he sung a cheeky, "Bye!' before running past, but not before jumping on top of Mycroft's foot. He was rather pleased with the limp that that particular act resulted in. He'd have to remember to do it again  
_

* * *

  
  
Dinner hadn't been particularly eventful. Sherlock refused to eat a morsel.  
  
Mycroft attempted to emulate him for about twenty minutes, before shamefacedly succumbing to desire and practically licking his plate clean.  
  
"Hungry are you dear?" Aunt Scarlet innocently asked. "Lunch wasn't that long ago."  
  
Mycroft blushed bright red and made his excuses.  
  
Sherlock smirked.  
  
The conversation pretty much carried off from where the last two had left. Who was doing what? What Aunt Aggi would have made of that? Who'd be coming tomorrow to attend the funeral?  
  
Sherlock found it all terribly dull. That is, until Uncle Tiberius came out with a right little gem towards the end of it.  
  
"Your father should be coming as well boys."  
  
Mycroft choked on his wine.  
  
"Oh darling, are you alright?" Aunt Scarlet twittered.  
  
"Perfectly. Sorry. Swallowed backwards," Mycroft gasped, wiping his mouth quickly on a napkin.  
  
Sherlock did the same, mostly to hide the grin that had spread across his face at his brother's expense.  
  
"Father you said?" Mycroft pressed on, sitting up straighter in his seat.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yes. I was talking with him just this afternoon," Tiberius boomed. "And he seemed quite resolute about it."  
  
"I-I wasn't aware he and Aunt Agnolia were close," Mycroft stammered.  
  
"Not incredibly close," Tiberius conceded. "But they did grow up together after all, we all did."  
  
"He used to live down the road from us," Aunt Scarlet explained.  
  
"And if he wants to pay his respects to our marvellous sister, I'm shan't argue with him about it."  
  
"Here-here," several slightly intoxicated relatives cheered.  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
"You never know Mycroft, you and he might be able to catch up."  
  
Something about the tightness of Mycroft's polite smile and the fact that his usually surgeon-steady hands shook for the rest of the meal made Sherlock wonder if, perhaps, that wasn't a particularly kind thing to say.  
  
No. It was just Mycroft being a drama queen, as usual. What's the worst that could possibly happen?  
  


* * *

  
  
_Sherlock had decided that he'd had enough.  
  
He'd given Mycroft his chance.  
  
Mummy had said that he was just trying to adjust to a new home. She said that it was a hard thing to do and Mummy was rarely wrong about these sorts of things. As such, Sherlock gave Mycroft a whole month to adjust.  
  
However the month had past and he was still being unbearable. What was more, Mummy was paying him far more attention than he deserved and it was cutting into Sherlock's time with her, and that was just not on.  
  
Sherlock had decided, the pest had to go.  
  
He'd discussed the matter with some of the girls from fifth form at his school (they thought he was cute and liked him much more than the fifth form boys or any of his peers).  
  
They also had the added benefit of being teenage girls. Mummy always said that Teenage school-girls could be really cruel. Apparently they specialised in psychological torture rather than physical abuse the boys were so found of, which, incidentally, was just the technique Sherlock wanted to specialise in.  
  
He knew that he'd never be able to get Mycroft out of the house by force alone. He was half Mycroft's size and the git refused to fight him at all, which made things difficult.  
  
But the fifth form girls were a wealth of knowledge… if approached in the right way of course.  
  
Apparently alienation was the best method for him to achieve his goal. He needed to make sure Mycroft knew that he wasn't welcome. Then, god willing, he'd take matters from there.  
  
So he'd left brochures for boarding schools on Mummy's desk and asked Mycroft to fetch him a book from there. He set the table for two rather than three; Mummy put it down to habit so Sherlock didn't even get in trouble for it. He'd left only Mycroft's clothes on the line when Mummy asked him to take them down for her, he was quite sure Mycroft was getting the message by that point.  
  
But he wasn't getting it fast enough.  
  
After about a week of attempting subtlety hint that perhaps Mycroft should find somewhere else to live, he decided to take on a more head on approach.  
  
It was the weekend and Mummy had driven down to London for the day, for some work thing.  
  
She'd put Mycroft in charge. Sherlock had been livid. He'd been there longer; he should have been the boss.  
  
In his foul mood he decided that enough truly was enough. Mycroft needed to go and he needed to go **now**.  
  
He plopped down on the bed Mummy had loaned Mycroft (loaned because it was not a permanent arrangement) on which Mycroft was sitting, reading a book.  
  
He glanced up.  
  
"Hello…" he said slowly, clearly wrong-footed (Sherlock made a point to never be alone in the same room as him unless completely necessary). "Are you alright?"  
  
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the question put to him.  
  
He would try the casual approach; lure his prey in before going in for the kill… like a spider!  
  
Mycroft (read: the fly) looked pleasantly surprised.  
  
"Reading," he replied, lifting up the book in his lap for Sherlock to see (as if he'd not spotted it himself).  
  
"What are you reading?"  
  
"Nineteen Eighty-Four," Mycroft replied. "Mum thought I might like it."  
  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, fighting back a grin as Mycroft walked straight into his web.  
  
A small smile spread across Mycroft's face.  
  
"I find this sort of thing very interesting. I like politics and this… well, the concept of a government  
seizing and maintaining such complete control over its people is fascinating. Scary, but incredibly fascinating."  
  
Oh hell, he wasn't supposed to give proper answers, this will take forever! Nonetheless, Sherlock persevered.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It just touches on lots of interesting stuff. Love, betrayal, politics and power. It's all very clever."  
  
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Sherlock asked again, "Why?"  
  
Mycroft frowned.  
  
There we go.  
  
"I just told you," he said.  
  
"Why?"  
  
He was starting to get frustrated now.  
  
"Because you asked," he grumbled.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, losing his cool. "I thought you were interested, but clearly you're not."  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
"Leave me alone Sherlock," he ordered through gritted teeth.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because you're being childish."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"If I had to hasten a guess, because you're incapable of acting your age," Mycroft muttered bitterly, flicking over a page of his book.  
  
Sherlock snarled, and snapped it from Mycroft's grasp.  
  
"Give it back Sherlock," Mycroft hissed.  
  
Sherlock smirked and asked slyly, "Why? Does it mean something to you?"  
  
"Give. It. Back," Mycroft snapped.  
  
"Oh, that's right," Sherlock drawled, "Mummy gave it to you. A present. Probably the first she’s ever given you. Am I right?"  
  
Mycroft looked angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him before. Maybe he'd hit him. That would be brilliant; Mummy would never let him stay if she thought he was going to hurt Sherlock.  
  
"I'm warning you Sherlock, give it back," he growled again.  
  
"Or else what?" Sherlock replied, holding Mycroft's eye whilst he delicately flipped the book open. "Would you hit me if I didn’t?"  
  
It had the exact opposite effect than what he'd hoped. Mycroft looked like he'd been doused by a bucket of cold water.  
  
"Of course I wouldn't hit you," he said.  
  
Bitterly disappointed Sherlock snarled, "Oh yeah? What if I did this?" before ripping one of the pages clean out of the book before throwing both at his brother.  
  
Mycroft looked like he'd been slapped.  
  
"Going to hit me now?" Sherlock asked, grinning triumphantly.  
  
Mycroft sagged.  
  
"Get out," he uttered, staring down at the book.  
  
"Oh come on!" Sherlock cried, beyond exasperated. "Why are you always such a stick in the mud? I ruined your book! Do something!"  
  
Mycroft's head snapped up and he yelled, actually yelled, "Get out of my room now!"  
  
Finally, something he could work with.  
  
"It's not your room!" Sherlock screamed back.  
  
"Yes it is," Mycroft snapped back, picking Sherlock up off the bed and carrying him towards the door, dodging all Sherlock's kicks. "Mother said-"  
  
"Her name's Mummy!"  
  
Mycroft dropped him down to the floor just outside the bedroom door.  
  
"Fine then. Mummy said I could have it; therefore it is in my possession. QED, it's my room."  
  
"Na-ah," Sherlock screamed, sprawled out on the hall carpet. "She's just letting you borrow it until you can go somewhere else."  
  
Mycroft stopped dead.  
  
That wasn't meant to slip out but it had its affect. Sherlock tasted blood in the water. It was time to go in for the kill.  
  
"I mean, it's not like you're staying forever are you? You were supposed to stay with our father forever and he didn't want you."  
  
Sherlock could see Mycroft's Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he gulped. He'd lost all of the colour in his face too.  
  
"What makes you think Mummy will keep on wanting you when Father didn’t? Father knew you better. How'd you know she will once she does too? How do you know anyone will."  
  
For the longest moment, nothing happened. Mycroft stared down at Sherlock with something that wasn't quite shock, but close enough to it.  
  
"You really don't want me here, do you?" he mournfully sighed, all of the anger, all of the energy, draining clean out of him.  
  
Glaring, Sherlock shook his head. No he didn't want Mycroft here. He wanted him back where he belonged, out of Sherlock's way and far away from his mother.  
  
"Fine," Mycroft muttered, "I'll talk to Mum when she comes home and I'll go somewhere else."  
  
"Good," Sherlock hissed, pulling himself back to his feet.  
  
Mycroft nodded before turning back to walk into the guest room.  
  
"But for now, just leave me alone… please."  
  
His hands were shaking and his voice was cracking.  
  
Sherlock frowned. He felt funny. Like his chest was being squeezed, which wasn't right. He'd fallen to the ground for dramatic effect, not because Mycroft thrown him there hard enough to warrant injury. He shouldn't be having any trouble breathing.  
  
Mycroft glanced down at him. His eyes were red and shining, and his lips wobbled a bit at the edges as he murmured, "Sherlock please, go."  
  
Sherlock left when the first tear fell. The squeezing was starting to really hurt and he didn't know what was causing it. What he did know was that whatever was happening to Mycroft was what was triggering it and Sherlock didn't like it one bit.  
  
So he made a tactical retreat and was relieved to find that whilst the bad feeling didn't go away entirely, it got better with distance. He ran to his room and hid under the bed, where only he could fit and it was safe.  
  
He'd have to research it later. For now though, his mind was plagued with how upset Mycroft had looked. He'd not expected that. He'd not expected to not like it even more.  
  
Why should he care? Mycroft was a pain. And he'd ruined everything for Sherlock. And he must have done something bad in the first place, for father to get rid of him. He was bad. He deserved it. Sherlock shouldn't care. It doesn't matter. He shouldn't care.  
  
The only problem was, he really, really did.  
_

* * *

  
  
They weren't released from their familial obligations until past ten that night. The men and the women had split up for the evening, the women to gossip and the men to... well, do the same.  
  
'Old Fenton got that Aston Martin I hear. Broke down six miles from the dealership."  
  
'And little Tomias is getting married. To some Brazilian Filly. Done rather good for himself I'd say."  
  
"Nathaniel? Still a bloody artist I’m quite sure. But you know, whatever works I suppose."  
  
Sherlock was ready to jump through the Smoking Room window by the time it was decided that sleep had become necessary.

   
"You're not coming to bed?" Sherlock yawned, all but diving under the covers, lest some nosy relative came seeking fellow night-owls for a chat, midnight snack or something equally heinous.  
  
Mycroft, who'd been unusually quiet all evening, murmured distractedly, "I will in a minute."  
  
"Whatever," Sherlock murmured, flopping down on top of his fluffed up pillow. "Don't steal the covers when you do."


	3. Chapter 3

The funeral was probably the highlight of the trip really. That was a rather morbid thing to think. Sherlock knew that. John probably would have rolled his eyes or sighed if he'd have said it out loud. But Sherlock could hardly help if it was the truth, could he?

At last, a celebration of the life of the woman they were actually there for, who he believed, in spite of their frequent butting-of-heads, was worth far more than the simpering anecdotes his relatives insisted on sullying her memory with would suggest.

The ceremony itself was not held in a cemetery but rather a cliff-side not too far from the manor itself. Aunt Scarlett assured them that it was one of her favourite places to be. "She wrote three of those books of hers up there you know?"

There was a little more simpering, but that was to be expected. There were however, a couple accurate and amusingly dry eulogies penned by a number of his cheekier cousins (Aunty had always appreciated a little cheek) and even a chorus of ' _My_ Way' whilst the ashes were scattered (resulting in an unfortunate clash of generation and taste when half of the procession took the more traditional Sinatra-esque approach, whilst the remainder chose to bellow and sneer a more  _Vicious_ melody).

Aunty would have loved it.

In spite of that all though, Mycroft, whom Sherlock had thought would have found the display greatly amusing, had been more than a little on edge throughout it all. Sherlock put it down to fatigue. Well that's what he got for spending all night staring out a window at nothing instead of sleeping like he rightly should have.  
Sherlock could appreciate the necessity of abstaining from rest when there was something stimulating to think about. But they were out in the middle of nowhere and there was nothing so much as  _resembling_ stimulating to stew over in the light of day, let alone the dead of night. Staying awake for  _nothing_  was just foolish.

Sherlock had no sympathy for him whatsoever.

The wake was held back at Vernet Manor, in the courtyard they'd all enjoyed lunch the day before.

Unfortunately, the simpering had started up again… with a vengeance.

Sherlock found himself making hasty rounds, so to appear sociable whilst not actually committing himself to anybody's company at the same time (Mummy would be quite cross with him if word got back that he'd spent the entire event ' _loitering in the shadows'_ ). Everybody seemed to have developed the worrying habit of starting off conversations in almost identical manners. That is to say, they all murmured, muttered, boomed, twittered or sighed, "So - poor old (Aunt) Aggie, eh?" or some variation therein.

It was beginning to become incredibly tedious.

An hour and a half an hour in, Sherlock was in the middle of privately debating the pros and cons of throwing himself out of the attic window when he was set upon by his Uncle, Tiberius. He'd somehow managed to waddle up unnoticed behind him, clapping a large hand down on Sherlock's shoulder to gain his attention, chuckling heartedly all the while at something amusing that had just occurred to him in the privacy of his own mind.

"Sherlock, my boy!" he boomed, already quite jollily smashed, in spite of the occasion. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Why don't you come talk to your father with me? It's about time you two finally met I say."

Sherlock spared his uncle a contemplative hum.

It would be a lie to say that he wasn't curious about the man. After all, the only relationship he and his father shared thus far was Sherlock's spotting his car from the upstairs window thirty years previous and his reading a torn up and partially burnt letter addressed to his mother about his brother. So they weren't exactly familiar, to say the very least.

Tiberius was grinning at him in what Sherlock assumed his uncle considered to be an encouraging manner (Sherlock just thought it made him look like an oaf, but considering he was relatively fond of the man (comparatively at least), refrained from saying so).

Instead, he sipped from his wine and sedately asked, "He turned up then?"

"Of course lad. Old Siger's always has been a stickler for appointments."

Sherlock scoffed.

"A trait Mycroft inherited I'd say."

Tiberius chuckled.

"Your brother is indeed the spitting image of the old man," he boomed. "You're definitely your Mother's boy though."

"In appearance perhaps," Sherlock laughed. "I've been reliably informed I lack her natural charm though."

"Oh rot," Tiberius chortled, before clapping Sherlock's shoulder again. "Come. Let's go and see him. He said he had to get going soon."

Sherlock took another sip of his wine.

Did he want to see Siger Holmes? No, not particularly. Well, he didn't inot/i want to see him either. He just wasn't curious enough about him to be bothered either way.

He couldn't help but think that he wouldn't like the man all that much. Mummy didn't like him. Not in the slightest. And from what he had gathered over the years, Mycroft didn't have a very high (or particularly fond) opinion of him either. Chances were that Sherlock and he were not going to 'hit it off' and to be quite frank, he already had enough people he didn't like to deal with as it was.

Having said that, Tiberius was being annoyingly insistent. One more idiot for his collection couldn't hurt, especially if it bought him a little peace and quiet.

Sherlock sighed.

"Alright. Let's go. However, perhaps we should find Mycroft first. It would be nice to catch up, all three of us. Don't you think?"

If Sherlock was going down, he was bringing that git down with him.

Tiberius (predictably) thought it was a brilliant idea and after making Sherlock promise to remain exactly where he was, waddled off in search of Mycroft. Sherlock rolled his eyes and enlisted a second or third cousin (he was losing count) to fetch him some more wine (he just knew he was going to need it).

"And you'd better not have spat in this one Diel," he warned said relation when Tiberius eventually returned a couple of minutes later, looking rather crestfallen.

"No luck?"

"No," Tiberius sighed. "And Siger's gone and disappeared as well."

"What a shame," Sherlock drawled, taking a swig from his glass. "Perhaps they found each other on their own."

"Maybe," Tiberius replied. "Still, I'm sorry lad. I would have liked for you to finally get to talk to that dad of yours."

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing his Uncle's concern.

"It's fine. I'm sure we'll get around to it someday."

Tiberius hung around for a little while longer, checking twice more that he wasn't too heartbroken about having his big father-son moment postponed. Sherlock assured him that he wasn't and after one more check, was finally released from his increasingly tiresome company.

He mingled a little while longer. Maybe five or ten minutes.

Mycroft hadn't yet turned up and it was starting to interest (not worry) Sherlock.

If he was to assume that he and Tiberius' theory as to whom he was keeping company was correct (and considering he'd not heard Tiberius' triumphant cry (indicating his father's return) or boomed enquiries (indicating his brother's), it seemed likely) his brother's absence was all the more bizarre.

After all, Mycroft was not the sort to suffer through the presence of those he disliked when not absolutely necessary. (read: the stability of state was at stake). He may not have been quite as upfront about it as Sherlock was, but he got the message across nonetheless. So why was he still gone?

He glanced up from the contents of his glass to find Uncle Tobias, Tiberius' larger, louder and by the look of it, drunker doppleganger making a beeline for him.

Sherlock promptly decided it was time to investigate.

Zipping through the crowd of relatives, studiously (and politely, he patted himself on the back for that) avoiding conversation, he quickly informed Aunt Scarlet that he was just nipping off to see 'Where Mycroft got with those extra glasses you were after' promptly covering his and Mycroft's arses and stunning his Aunt, who'd never asked for glasses in the first place, long enough for him to make his escape.

He'd searched the inside of the house within five and a half minutes (well, six and a half including the minute he spent holding his breath behind a tapestry whilst Tiberius and Tobias walked past in search of more wine) and promptly decided to move his search to the grounds.

He spotted his brother within seconds of walking out of the Servant's Access Door. He was sitting on the short, stone wall that surrounded the manor, separating it from it from the rest of the property.

He had his back turned to Sherlock. He was… what? Watching the cows? They had a wake to suffer through and Mycroft had just left him to the mercy of their relatives to watch some bloody Norman Cows chewing their cud!

Eyes narrowed and fists clenched, he stormed over.

He had half a mind to punch him, or at the very least - slap him up the back of the head, for being such an inconsiderate arse. But in the end, he settled for just giving the fat lump's shoulder a hard shove.

With a startled gasp, Mycroft leapt up from the wall and spun about to face him.

And when he did, all thoughts of a confrontation were a run clean from Sherlock's mind.

* * *

_Mycroft was covering for Sherlock._

_Both he and Mummy were in the guest room, sitting together on the bed and tearfully discussing the situation._

_Sherlock was watching through the keyhole, balanced precariously on the bench that stood beside the door, so neither of them caught sight of his feet beneath it._

_"Maybe father would tak- maybe if you talked to him he would-"_

_"No," Mummy whispered, running her fingers soothingly through his short hair. "No sweetheart. There are other people. But I will not send you back to him."_

_Mycroft bit his lip before nodding quickly. Sherlock only just caught the muttered, "Thank you."_

_Mummy wiped her eyes._

_"Just tell me where you want to go darling," she whispered, rubbing circles over his temple with her thumb. "I'll make all of the arrangements."_

_Mycroft shrugged._

_"I don't- it doesn't matter," he miserably replied, in a way that made Sherlock's chest ache again. "Whatever's easiest."_

_Mummy frowned._

_Uh oh._

_"Whatever's easiest?" she asked suspiciously._

_Mycroft glanced up, eyes wide._

_"Mycroft. What is this **really**  about?"_

_"I- nothi- What do you mean?"_

_"Mycroft Percival Holmes you tell me the truth," Mummy sternly ordered. "Do you really want to leave?"_

_Mycroft was shaking._

_Sherlock was sunk._

_He shook his head._

_"Then what is all of this about?" she asked, still stern._

_"I... I thought it was probably for the best," Mycroft all but squeaked in reply._

_"And why did you think that?" Mummy asked, crossing her arms._

_Looking very much like a deer in the headlights of a hunter's truck, Mycroft stuttered, "I, that is, I... I thought-"_

_"Mycroft..."_

_"I just... came to the conclusion that my presence here might be a little more disruptive than I'd hoped it would be."_

_"Disruptive to whom?" Mummy growled._

_Mycroft gulped._

_Sherlock did too._

_"Well- there's... um-"_

_"Sherlock!"_

_Oh god, she was going to ground him for life._

_"Sherlock Holmes you come here this instant!" Mummy yelled again._

_"It's not his fault!" Mycroft insisted._

_Sherlock didn't stick around to hear any more._

_Instead he leaped from the bench and tried to think of the best place to hide. Under the bed was too obvious. The laundry smelled funny. Under the stairs was too dusty for sustainable living. The kitchen was used too much. The bathroom was too small-_

_"Sherlock!"_

_Drat._

_Sherlock had never seen Mummy so angry before._

_Gripping his wrist tight enough for escape to be but a distant memory, she dragged him into the guest room, picking him up off the floor before putting him back down firmly on top of the bed._

_"Sherlock," she called over his frustrated whining. "Do you have anything to do with Mycroft's wanting to move away?"_

_"No," Sherlock grumbled._

_Gripping his chin, she forced him to look her in the eye and ordered him to say that he didn't again._

_Sherlock didn't even bother. He knew he couldn't._

_"Sherlock!" she fumed. "How could you?"_

_"Mum he didn't mea-"_

_"Yes he did."_

_"He's just-"_

_"Mycroft, darling," Mummy huffed, glancing over at him standing nervously by the end of the bed. "Sit down and stop trying to defend him. He knew exactly what he was doing."_

_Mycroft bit his lip, but other than that, didn't move. It was the first time Sherlock had seen him disobey... anyone - let alone Mummy._

_Considering her surprised reaction, it was the first time she had seen him do it too._

_"I... not if you-" Mycroft swallowed, "What are you going to do?"_

_Mummy frowned._

_Sherlock did too. What exactly was he hoping for here?_

_"I'm just going to explain to him what he's done wrong sweetheart," she answered._

_Mycroft shifted nervously from foot to foot._

_"That's it?" he asked._

_"That's it," Mummy insisted._

_Sherlock was confused. Of course they were going to talk. What else would they do? Mummy knew time outs didn't work on him anymore. Talking to him for ages until he promised not to do something ever again was her new (and regrettably affective) method of disciplining him._

_It was really boring, but nothing that warranted Mycroft's reaction to it. And why was Mycroft even concerned about it to begin with? It was happening to Sherlock - not him._

_Mummy held out a hand to Mycroft and asked him to sit down again, brushing her thumb lightly over his knuckles._

_Sherlock scowled. Of course. He understood now. It was just the bed wetting all over again. He was getting upset about nothing just so Mummy will go and comfort him for **ages**  and now he was using Sherlock to do it!_

_"You are absolutely pathetic," he muttered darkly._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Mycroft sighed._

_"Am I?"_

_"You can't bear to have her attention off of you for a second can you?"_

_Mycroft laughed._

_"That's what you think is it?"_

_"That's what I know!" Sherlock retorted._

_"Well then I think you should go find a mirror Sherlock. You'll find the person you're mistaking me for is in it."_

_Sherlock growled._

_"Would you two please stop fighting?" Mummy sighed, rubbing her eyes. "I can't stand it when you fight."_

_Mycroft's muttered apology was drowned out by Sherlock's outraged cry of, "See! You've upset Mummy now!"_

_He scowled._

_"But that's not a problem for you is it," Sherlock hissed. "Because you'll just start blubbering and she'll go and forgive you right away, you stupid, fat crybaby!"_

_"Sherlock Holmes!" Mummy cried. "That is absolutely enough!"_

_"You're taking his side?" Sherlock cried back in disbelief._

_"I'm not taking anybody's side."_

_"You are!" Sherlock insisted. "Can't you see. He's just doing this so you'll coo all over him like you do every time he pretends to be upset!"_

_"Sherlock! Go to your room!"_

_" **You**  brought me in here!"_

_"Now!"_

_"Oh yes - so you can spend even more time with precious Saint Mycroft!" he spat. "He's not half as brilliant as you think he is you know!"_

_"To your room Sherlock!"_

_"He isn't!" Sherlock yelled, hitting the bed in frustration. "He always spoils everything I do and he does it on purpose! He thinks he can order me about! He steals things!"_

_"I do not steal things!" Mycroft snapped._

_"You do too, liar!" Sherlock retorted._

_"What, pray tell, have I stolen then?" Mycroft asked. "And you had better not have planted something on me."_

_Sherlock smirked._

_"Like I need to," he sneered, before leaping off the bed._

_He tore across the room, ignoring Mummy's renewed demands for him to stop this and go to his room as he ripped the bottom draw from the set and threw it to the ground, pulling all of the clothes out of it to reveal a nice little collection of bagged and canned food._

_"Gotcha," he practically sang, chucking one of the bags to Mycroft._

_Mycroft growled._

_"Have you been snooping about my room!" he cried._

_"It's not your room! It's the guest room - for **guests** , some of which have very much outstayed their welcome."_

_"Sherlock!"_

_"It's true!" Sherlock cried, before turning back to Mycroft and snapping, "Besides, you wouldn't be welcome here now anyway. We don't house thieves and liars like you!"_

_Mycroft scowled._

_"I didn't steal these."_

_"Oh yeah?" Sherlock jeered, "How'd you get them then? You don't have any money. We don't buy this brand - so you didn't **steal**  them from the pantry. You had to have stolen them from the shop. It's the only explanation of the facts."_

_"I didn't steal anything!" Mycroft shouted, before forcing himself to calm down again._

_He spared Mummy and uncomfortable glance, before continuing through gritted teeth, "You're wrong. That's one possible explanation of some of the facts."_

_"It is not!"_

_"Look at the labels!" Mycroft snapped. "They're from Marks & Spencer's. Not the Sainsbury's down the road or the Morrison's a little further still. Why would I walk across two towns just to steal that specific brand of packaged goods?"_

_Sherlock's cheeks were heating up. That was... that made sense. But something was still weird about keeping food hidden underneath your school trousers and Sherlock wasn't going down with a fight._

_"You could have stolen it from someone's home?" he suggested._

_Mycroft scoffed._

_"First I'm a shop-lifter, now a burglar?"_

_"Burglar if you did it at night. House-breaker if it was during the day!"_

_"Unbelievable."_

_"Well then how did you get them?"_

_"They're mine!" Mycroft cried, fisting his hands in his hair. "I brought them with me! Father's cleaner was going through the pantry, throwing stuff out. They were going to be chuckled out anyway! It wasn't stealing!"_

_"Technically-"_

_"Oh shut up Sherlock!"_

_Sherlock spun around to Mummy, expecting to find some sort of reproachful stare being directed at Mycroft for once and determined to enjoy it. And she was staring at Mycroft, but not reproachfully. Not even a little. Her eyes were wide and soft and... she was concerned! Mycroft told him to shut up and not only was she not the slightest bit upset about it, she was concerned about him!_

_Sherlock gaped._

_"Mycroft darling. I think you and I need to talk."_

_Mycroft spun around, wide-eyed._

_"He was throwing them out!" he insisted. "I didn't- It wasn't stealing!"_

_"No sweetheart," Mummy soothed, "That's not what I'm worried about."_

_Mycroft blinked._

_"What then?" he asked._

_"The fact that you feel the need, have ever felt the need to hide away food in your room worry's me darling."_

_Mycroft bit his lip._

_"It's because he's such a fatso," Sherlock bitterly muttered under his breath before he could think better of it._

_"Sherlock, go to your room and wait there," Mummy snapped, eyes flashing dangerously, "You and I are going to talk about your behaviour once Mycroft and I are done."_

_Sherlock frowned._

_"Why can't I talk to you first?"_

_"Sherlock go," Mummy ordered, taking Mycroft's hand and pulling him over to sit on the bed._

_Sherlock tried to be angry about that and he was, but it wasn't enough to overpower the hurt her dismissal had evoked. It was almost physical pain, like what happened with his chest before, when Mycroft started blubbering. It chest was squeezing again and his head felt funny - not like with a headache but like... his eyes felt really strange and his ears were ringing and his throat was really tight, squeezing tighter like his chest and-_

_"Sherlock. Now."_

_Sherlock ran. He ran as fast as his legs could go, out of the room and down the hall. He couldn't- he wouldn't just stand there and- he refused to humiliate himself by crying in front of everybody like stupid Mycroft._

_The first choked sob escaped as he barrelled through the door. Another quickly followed as he grabbed his favourite sheet and wrapped it tightly around him. By the time he dived under the bed and curled up in the far corner once more, the sobs couldn't be held back any longer and though the fist he shoved in his mouth did muffle them a little, it didn't stop them entirely._

_At least he knew where he stood now. Mummy had Mycroft now. He was her favourite and he… she didn't love him anymore. She didn't need him anymore._

_Was this just the beginning, would she only take Mycroft out with her from now on? Would they go on holidays, just the two of them? Would she only talk to him now? Would she only look at him and...and, only want him – not Sherlock anymore. Would she send Sherlock away like Mycroft was sent away?_

_It was possible. That's what people do at school wasn't it? You can be best friends with someone for years and then along comes someone new, someone better, someone who wasn't such a freak and bang – no more best friend._  
 _Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest._

_He was **really**  on his own now._

* * *

There were cuts on Mycroft's face, and his nose was bleeding profusely, as was his split bottom lip. He was clutching his side too. All in all, he looked like he'd been well and truly done over, and just about shaken enough for it too.

But that wasn't possible. It was Mycroft! Who would- who could... he needed more data.

However, before he could probe any deeper, Mycroft shut him out. It was like great stone walls had been put up around him, and Sherlock couldn't get through.

Mycroft smiled.

"I wondered when you'd come looking for me," he chuckled. "Sorry about leaving you Brother-Mine. I just needed a bit of a breather. I spent an hour listening to Great Uncle Edgar waxing lyrical about World War II and I needed a break."

Sherlock frowned.

"You've been attacked?"

Mycroft laughed.

"Goodness no," he replied. "Nothing that exciting I'm afraid. I just took a bit of a tumble, that's all. Very clumsy of me really. Quite embarrassing. "

"You've got blood all over you."

"You know how head wounds bleed," Mycroft replied with a shrug, "Give me a couple of minutes and a new shirt and we'll be as right as rain."

He steps over the wall. Sherlock doesn't miss how his legs were shaking, although to most it would be unnoticeable.

"Come on then, let's go," Mycroft sighed, smiling tiredly at him. "We don't want to keep the public waiting."

Shaking his head, Sherlock stepped closer, murmuring, "Let me help you then," as he reached out to take his arm.

Mycroft abruptly preformed some strange duck and weave manoeuvre, effectively putting himself out of Sherlock's reach once more.

"Sherlock I'm fine," he insisted.

"No you're not," Sherlock snapped.

"Honestly I am," Mycroft replied. "I just tripped over whilst I was enjoying a walk. It's all purely superficial, I promise."

Sherlock frowned.

"Your injuries are not consistent with those of a fall," he argued. "There's no damage to your palms - which at the very least, should have sustained as much, if not more scraping than your face has."

Mycroft sighed, glancing down, embarrassed, before reluctantly replying, "My hands were in my pockets. I- the diet's not going well and my trousers are somewhat ill-fitted. I couldn't get them out in time to break my fall. And my mind was elsewhere, which didn't aid the speed of my response."

The frown deepened on Sherlock's brow. The slacks didn't look any more ill-fitting than his own tailor-fitted trousers did, and why the hell was his brother admitting to both weight gain and absent mindedness to him, Sherlock, of all people?

In spite of the image of Mycroft tripping over his own feet with his hands stuck in his pockets being an incredibly amusing one, Sherlock smelt a red-herring, and to be perfectly honest, not even a particularly good one (which, considering the source, was saying something).

But he'd get more truth out of his brother if he didn't have his guard up all afternoon. So rather than saying this out-loud, he made the customary fat joke, lead the way inside, helped him get himself back into sorts and briefed him of their cover-story before re-joining everyone in the courtyard, whether he thought it was for the best or not.

Aunt Scarlet had naturally been quite alarmed by Mycroft's appearance, which, even without the blood running down his face and shirt, was rather ghastly. The bruises were already making a rather stark contrast with the pale skin of his face.

Sherlock stood by and watched as Mycroft smiled and explained to her how he merely tripped over whilst he was walking to the shed, looking for a ladder.

"I was told I'd find extra glasses in the attic."

"Who on earth told you that?"

"I'm afraid I really can't remember."

"Oh you silly boy," Aunt Scarlet scolded. "We didn't need any in the first place."

"But I swore you said- or perhaps it was someone else. I can't quite remember with everything going on."

"Perhaps poor Cyril got confused when I asked him to fetch Young Glais for me," Aunt Scarlet suggested.

Mycroft chuckled heartedly.

"Yes, that must have been it. I did wonder about the glasses. Oh well, no harm done."

"Except to you, you poor thing," Aunt Scarlet twittered, running a hand over the darkest of Mycroft bruises (Sherlock noticed he twitched before contact was even made, rather than due to the tenderness of the wound like their Aunt assumed).

"Does it hurt terribly?" she asked with great concern.

Mycroft smiled and reassured her that, "I've sustained far worse injuries in the office Aunty. It really is nothing to worry yourself over. Now I see Messes Tobias and Tiberius gesturing for us to join them. Best not to keep them waiting. Come Sherlock."

The rest of the day and indeed their final night at Vernet Manor were spent in exactly that manner, Mycroft  
swanning about as ever, conversing and making excuses for his appearance, leaving everyone none the wiser to what actually had happened.

That is, except for Sherlock, who stuck by his side for the rest of the day, thus noticing the tiny inconsistencies in Mycroft's admittedly good, but not half as-well thought out as it ought to be story. They were indeed itiny/i inconsistencies, the tripping over a pebble in one version, a twig the next, and then an untied shoelace which was quite masterfully spun into a fond reminder to always double knot for some of their younger cousins, but enough to feed Sherlock's suspicion.

On top of that, some of Mycroft's old tells were starting to rear their ugly heads again. The dislike of touching anyone for instance (he just caught himself from flinching when Uncle Tobias snuck up and clapped him on the shoulder, only Sherlock noticed it), and then there was the sudden aversion to alcohol where he'd been quite contently sipping wine earlier, and the comfort eating (he'd helped himself to five slices of cake by the time everything was packed up, something the Mycroft Sherlock was used to would never have done, especially in front of him, but the younger Mycroft he first met was known for doing after upsetting days at school or at midnight after a nightmare), or his getting lost in thought to the point he had to be shaken from them, which brought about the touch thing all over again.

There was also the fact that Sherlock had not poked fun at him once since their re-joining of the party, which, he was beginning to feel quite ashamed to find, was beyond uncharacteristic (illustrated by batty old Grandmamma commenting on how nice it was to see him 'Being kind to your brother for once') and yet Mycroft had not commented, or indeed, noticed it.

Sherlock wasn't yet certain what had happened to him, he had learned to not draw theories around cherry picked facts, but he did know one thing for sure; something far more traumatic than a mere tumble had caused those injuries, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion it wasn't the first time this had happened either.

* * *

_Mummy didn't come to see Sherlock for another three hours after the argument between Mycroft and him. Even then, she wasn't happy with him. She told him that she was disappointed with him, that she couldn't believe that he had acted so appallingly, so cruelly, and that she expected far more from him than that._

_Sherlock was heartbroken._

_She told him to go to bed early and that he was grounded until the end of the month - but it was her omitting her nightly hug that struck Sherlock the hardest. He fell asleep crying for the first time since he was really little that night._

_Mycroft had spilled the beans on everything. It turned out he had noticed the brochures and taken note of the table setting and clothesline displays after all._

_Unfortunately, this also meant that Mummy was on the lookout for any sign of Sherlock's continued campaign to make him feel unwelcome, leaving him powerless to do anything about the situation._

_As such, it became official - Mycroft was staying._

_Sherlock had never hated him more._

_Fortunately, after that fight, he had begun to spend all of his time outside, waking very early in the morning to leave and returning home as late as Mummy would allow._

_And though this was by far a preferable alternative to being stuck in the same house as the git, Sherlock couldn't help but resent it._  
 _He was convinced Mycroft was just doing it to rub it in his face that he **could**  go outside whilst Sherlock could not. It was petty and incredibly childish... but god if it didn't still vex him so._

_It retaliation, Sherlock made sure to make every second he spent within his own domain (read: indoors) was complete and utter hell._  
 _Mummy didn't like it of course, but why should Sherlock care? She didn't like him anymore anyway? He could do anything he wanted, it didn't make any difference. He'd marvel over how liberating that was if it still didn't hurt quite so badly._

_However, a couple of weeks later, Sherlock's incarceration came to an end and in spite of Sherlock's assumptions to the contrary, Mycroft's daily excursions carried on unchanged._

_Sherlock was intrigued._

_Maybe he had a secret girlfriend he was meeting up with every day to go and have sex with, that's what teenagers were supposed to do (or at least want to do) in their spare time wasn't it? Would Mummy kick him out if he was having underage sex? What if the girl got pregnant? Maybe he should check his belongings for condoms- wait, no, sabotaging contraceptives was bad. Mummy told him that when she went through that faze of giving him life lessons whilst watching American soaps (some things are just too bizarre to delete)._

_Besides, that probably wasn't what he was doing anyway._

_What girl would sleep with Mycroft? The fifth form girls had certainly found the idea highly amusing (although he feared it was more their finding his asking the question funnier than the question itself)._

_Regardless, a couple of days into his renewed freedom he woke up early and followed him out of the house, down the street and into the park. True to form, Mycroft was participating in nothing as interesting as a tryst with the girl next door, choosing instead to climb up the tree furthest away from all of the others and read, people watch or sleep in its lower branches._

_Of course he continued his observations for another two days just to be certain, but nothing changed._

_Sherlock simply couldn't fathom how it was possible for someone to be that boring._

_But that didn't matter. Dull or not, at least it this new arrangement kept Mycroft out of the house, out of Sherlock's way and away from Mummy. Sherlock, as a result, had got to spend a lot more time with her, just like in the old days. She had even started to love him again._

_But then Mycroft started to get sick._

_At first the coughing had been irritating, but relatively easy to ignore. Then it became more frequent, thus, far more annoying. Towards the end of the week, Sherlock was convinced that Mycroft was just doing it to get a rise out of him, and he was not going to indulge him._  
 _But even then, it didn't stop. In fact, it was getting worse. It actually sounded like it really hurt._

_He'd not gone to Mummy about it yet._

_Sherlock didn't know why._

_It had been going on for a little over a week when everything finally came to a head._

_They'd been having dinner, and Mycroft had been coughing intermittently throughout the meal, unable to suppress them completely although he persisted with his attempts to muffle them using the sleeve of his jumper._

_Mummy noticed nonetheless._

_"That's sounding quite bad sweetheart," she commented. "How long has that been going on?"_

_"Not long," Mycroft replied with a reassuring smile. "It's fine. Sounds worse than it is really."_

_Sherlock frowned._

_He was lying. Why was he lying? That cough had been going on for more than a week and it **was**  painful, Sherlock had seen him clutching his chest earlier and had heard more than a few moans and groans following some particularly nasty fits._

_But Mummy had been busy at work and she was just taking his word for it._

_"I can book you in to the doctor's if you like," she said._

_"No it really is fine," Mycroft insisted. "I suppose I've just caught that bug that's going about. Piers has spent the whole week at home because of it you know? Johnstone and Collins too."_

_Mummy returned the sentiment, announcing that Merill had also caught the aforementioned bug, whilst Sherlock stewed all the while._

_Mycroft didn't have a stupid bug. He was legitimately sick and not only was he refusing to admit to how serious it was, he was refusing to go to the doctor altogether. How was he going to get better if he didn't go to the doctor's? That's just stupid. And there was one thing Sherlock could not abide by, it was stupidity._

_As such, he came up with a plan to out his brother (which took no time) and promptly put it in motion._

_So whilst Mycroft and Mummy made small talk, Sherlock seized the salt and pepper shakers and set about pouring out the contents of said shakers onto the dining table._

_Mummy finally noticed once he had a nice big pile of both._

_"Sherlock, what are you doing?" she sighed._

_"I wanted to check which shaker was salt before I put it over my dinner," Sherlock replied, eyes wide and innocent. "Then I mixed them up, so I had to do it again."_

_"There are big letters on the side," Mycroft pointed out._

_Sherlock scowled._

_"That's indicative of nothing other than what each shaker is **supposed**  to be used for."_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes but said no more._

_Mummy sighed._

_"Well you know now, so can you please set about cleaning that mess up darling."_

_Sherlock grinned._

_"No problem," he cheerily replied, before taking a deep breath and blowing the piles across the table, right into Mycroft's face._

_He wasn't expecting Mycroft to cough so much, or so bad. He wasn't expecting him to not be able to stop it, to not be able to breathe. He wasn't expecting Mummy to get so worked up, or to get so scared about it himself. He wasn't- how could he have known that- he'd not wanted that to happen._

_It took five minutes for Mycroft to start breathing properly again, by which time he (and both Mummy and Sherlock, although for a different reason) was shaking quite badly._

_Mummy decided to take him to hospital (studiously ignoring all of his assertions that it was not necessary, that he was completely fine)._

_Sherlock was so blindsided by what had happened he didn't even complain about being forced to stay with Ms. Bailey from next door whilst they went without him._

_She didn't come back at all that night, nor had she returned by the morning. In fact, it wasn't until late the night after Sherlock had almost murdered his brother (no, not murder. Manslaughter. He hadn't meant it, they couldn't charge him with murder) when she finally did come for him, tired and clingy - and not even in a nice way._

_Mycroft wasn't with her._

* * *

Sherlock tiptoed out of the room he and Mycroft were sharing just as the grandfather clock down stairs struck twelve. Mycroft was already asleep. They had to leave early in the morning and in spite of all of his assurances to the contrary, his brother had been utterly exhausted.

He crept down the hall and stealthily snuck down the stairs, avoiding the floorboards and steps that he'd discovered as a child, creaked loud enough to alert undesirables to his midnight exploits.

Listening carefully for the warning sounds indicating someone's moving about upstairs, Sherlock tugged on his  
shoes, his coat, and wrapped his scarf snug around his neck before quietly slipping out the door and down the drive.

He walked for about five minutes, until he reached the top of a nearby hill where he could see anyone who  
approached him.

Only then did he set about doing what he had come out there to do.

"Piss off Sherlock," John sleepily grumbled over the speaker.

"That hardly follows proper conversationalist etiquette John," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"I don't need sodding etiquette you're calling me at 2 o'clock in the-

"1:38 acutally."

"-ing morning. This better be bloody good."

"John, stop being over-dramatic," Sherlock sighed. "Besides, I need you."

John groaned loudly.

"What's happened? I refuse to catch a plane to bloody France at bloody 2-"

"1:39"

"- in the morning!"

"No plane John, I should be home by twelve tomorrow."

"Can't it wait until then?"

"Certainly not. I'm on an investigation."

"So naturally I'm not allowed to sleep from here on out."

"You may sleep as soon as I'm done with you," Sherlock replied, a smirk tugging at his lips, he was quite sure John could hear traces of it because there was a low growl emanating from the speaker that would have no doubt been quite intimidating if he and its origin were not separated by anything less than the English Channel.

"Fine," John grumbled, Sherlock could hear him pulling the sheets back with a moody huff. "But this better be good and I'm making tea."

"Two sugars thanks," Sherlock quipped.

"Alright," John groaned upon finally having prepared his refresher of choice, wrapped himself in a blanket, (Sherlock feared it was the shock blanket, John seemed inappropriately fond of it) and settled down into his chair. "Now tell me what's going on."

"Mycroft was beaten up today," Sherlock replied without pretence.

There was a rather loud swashing sound, a muttered curse around what Sherlock assumed to be a mouthful of tea, before finally a gulp and the clatter of his cup and tray being set down.

"What – our Mycroft?"

"Ye- wait, since when is he  _our_  Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Remember that night when we found out Rachel was cheating on me? And you were being a dick and going on and on about how you told me so-"

"I  **did**  tell you so-"

"You're not supposed to actually say it mate. Yeah, well he let me kip at his place for the night. Shoulder to cry on and all that, not that I did any crying of course. More ranting and raving that needed an audience. It's more than Harry ever would have done for me."

Sherlock blinked.

"... Ah huh. Highly disturbing though that is, in answer to your question – yes  _our_  Mycroft."

"Bloody hell. How is he?

"That's the thing. He's acting like nothing has happened. He's saying he fell.

"Are you sure he didn't just fall?"

"There's no scrapes on his hands. His explanation was that he'd gained so much weight he was unable to pull them out to break his fall in time."

"Sherlock…"

"John, I'm being serious."

"…Did he say that exactly?"

"Pretty much."

John scoffed.

"No really. I got the impression he was trying to distract me."

"Sounds like he was yeah. He wouldn't usually own up to that, especially to you."

"Which means someone attacked him and for some reason, he's protecting them."

"You got any idea who it is?"

"Nothing solid. He wasn't attacked where I found him, that's for sure, and it's too late to attempt to find a trail back to the site."

"Alright – so we'll start with the basics like we normally do. Who was at the funeral?"

"Just family. And they all adore Mycroft. I can't imagine any of them doing it."

"So no staff or hired help hanging around."

"The manor is upheld by my Aunt and Uncles, they don't have live-in servants. Whatever help they procure were not present today no. The caterers arrived before everyone was out of bed; Mycroft and I were enlisted to help set everything up. It was just family John."

"Could someone have snuck onto the property and attacked him before leaving again,"

"But why would Mycroft keep it secret? They would have been a threat to everyone's safety if that were the case, besides – I've seen him after assassination attempts, he's never been half as worked up as he was when I found him."

"So you think he knew his attacker," John murmured. "It could still be work related."

"I highly doubt that. He has his minions monitoring the situation-"

"You trust them to do it properly, that's quite the leap of faith for you."

"John, if it was an assassination attempt there would either be the body of an assassin lying about the property, I would have been notified and there soon would be, or my brother would be dead."

"Okay okay. So we're sticking with family."

"At present it seems the most likely… and yet at the same time the least likely."

"Good to see we're getting somewhere."

"Who would want to attack Mycroft?"

"Apart from you."

"I already considered that."

"… You already-?"

"I have no recollection of the incident and recall no moment of unconsciousness. My whereabouts can also be vouched for thoughout Mycroft's absence and I passed no less than fifteen relatives during my search for him, all of which I clearly remember, so again, no blackout."

"I'm sorry, I'm still caught up on the fact that you considered  _yourself_  a suspect here-"

"Well it would be foolish not to," Sherlock sighed. "What have I told you about observing all the facts, including the least likely ones?"

He could practically hear John rolling his eyes.

"Besides, as I've just established I didn't attack him, which is what is most important so can we please move on."

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"Alright, so other than yourself, is there anyone else in your family who isn't on the friendliest of terms with your brother?"

"No, I told you already, they're all irritatingly fond of him. I know that for a fact."

"Well clearly someone isn't."

Sherlock grunted reluctantly. Although it didn't mean all that much to him, Sherlock didn't like the idea of Mycroft's beloved illusion of a close family being shattered by one relative turning on him. That thought, if nothing else, made him all the more determined to uncover the assailant's identity.

"Who was he with?" John asked. "The whole day, who was he around on his own."

"Everyone," Sherlock muttered, thinking hard. "Aunt Scarlet mostly, providing moral support. Bentin and Garett of course, our most mischeivious cousins by far," he chose not to comment on John's disbelieving snort. "Great-Uncle Edgar. He also went and visited Aunt May and Uncle Don-"

"Surprisingly common names there-"

"Aunt May married in and Don is short for Donatello Melchiorre Audiotre-Vernet.

"…uh."

"Grandmama made the most of the war."

"I see. So, visited May and Don-"

"They just had a baby.

"Good lord."

"They named it William.

"Of course they did."

"He lingered like a bad smell around me for a while whilst we both avoided Uncle Tiberius and Uncle Tobias-"

"Don't get on?"

"Quite the opposite. Their affectionate to a fault. They're even more smothering than Mummy and have the bulk to carry the threat out."

"I see. So-?"

"So I can't think of anyone who would want to attack him-"

"Other than-"

"Yes we've already ruled me out haven't we?"

"Okay, okay. Well I don't know Sherlock. Was there anything different about this family get together than any other."

"Well it doubled as a funeral."

"Yes, other than that."

"Well, Grandpater wasn't there, obviously, he died last year. So did Braelyn and Jaquelle-"

"Who."

"Cousins, cancer and a car accident respectively."

"…sorry."

"Don't be. We were only distantly related, we weren't particularly close. Nonetheless, they were present enough for their absence to be of note. There were a few new additions, births and marriages, but Mycroft wouldn't have kept quiet to protect them."

"Anything else?"

"I don't know John! We're missing something."

"Well clearly this approach isn't working."

"Clearly."

"Let's try another. Let's try and work our way back from the incident."

Sherlock sighed, beyond frustrated, but John usually had a way of helping with these sorts of thing when Sherlock was lost – the social knowledge to go with Sherlock's logic, 'Like a conversion program,' Lestrade had once described it, ' _Sherlock-logic_  to  _real life_."

"Fine," he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

"So you found Mycroft," John prompted.

"Out the back of the manor, after I spent five minutes searching the manor itself. Before that I was outside in the court yard, mingling and trying to track him down out there."

"Why?"

"He'd disappeared. Walked off with our father ten, twenty minutes earlier and hadn't come back."

"Why was your father there? I'd have thought he would be at home with your mother. Or did she send him out with you two."

Sherlock was stunned for a moment, before laughing.

"What?"

"Sorry. It's just my parents divorced before I was born. I haven't the faintest idea what father's real purpose for being there was, perhaps he was trying to track down Mummy – it was a messy split and he's bound to have as many sore feelings about the matter as she does. Hell, if I ended up with Mycroft for seven years I'd probably be a bit bitte-"

"What do you mean ' _ended up with Mycroft'_?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. Mycroft lived with father for seven, blissful years whilst I was raised just Mummy and me."

"And at the end of those seven years?"

"Oh he dumped Mycroft on the doorstep with custody papers and a note. He did something that upset him, never found out what though."

"Does your father usually turn up at family things?"

"No it was quite the surprise actually," Sherlock replied, frowning slightly as he remembered his brother's reaction to that particular revelation. "Mycroft didn't seem all that pleased now I think about it."

"And you don't think…"

"No."

"Sherlock

"No John. That's not what happened."

"How can you be so sure?"

"It's illogical. Why… I mean, it's ridiculous.

"Sherlock, it's not unheard of for fathers to beat their children."

"John, seriously – no."

"How do you know? You just said then that for seven years it was just him and Mycroft-"

"Yeah but seriously?"

"How well do you know your father?"

Sherlock laughed. "This is ridiculous."

"Sherlock."

"Well I don't know him at all okay. We've never talked."

John made a satisfied hum.

"But I do know Mycroft. You do too. Apparently he's  _our_  Mycroft these days. Do you seriously think that he, that father- that he was abused for pity's sake. "

John paused.

"I wouldn't like to think that it's the case," he replied. "But I can't say that it's out of the realm of possibility. He does exhibit indicators-"

"What indicators-"

"Well how bloody protective of you he is for starters," John replied, "Not in itself a sure sign of abuse, but pair that with his obsession with keeping your mother happy-"

"I wouldn't say obsession-"

"I was there for the Christmas dinner remember," John interrupted. "He spent the entire visit trying to please her."

"He's always like that. It's just Mycroft trying to one up everybody and be Mummy's favourite."

"Sherlock, I've seen one-upmanship of the highest level-"

"The army?"

"Internship."

Sherlock scoffed.

"You'd be surprised how much arse-kissing some interns are willing to do for the possibility of a recommendation at the end."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Nonetheless, that wasn't so much trying to one-up anyone as it was... I don't know, terror of displeasing her, now that I recognise from the army."

"And this is why you don't formulate theories without all the facts. You're twisting everything around this ridiculous possibility."

"Sherlock, I would be as thrilled as you would be if it turned out if he really did just trip over whilst wandering about daydreaming – but you and I both know Mycroft, as you say, and you are the one who seems to think that someone has attacked them. Like it or not – the one person who rarely attends family events, left his son on the doorstep of his ex-wive's house with custody papers and no assurance that she'd taken-"

"It was mummy – he could have been a complete stranger and she would have taken him in."

"Being relatively certain that he'd not been left to fend for himself is not the same as making sure he hadn't been– and from what you told me, he didn't hang around to be certain, did he?"

"No," Sherlock muttered.

"I've got to say, he's not painting a lovely picture mate."

"I never said he is a likable man, but there's a difference between being an utter bastard and prone to abuse."

"Yes there is, but though one doesn't automatically equal the other it also doesn't automatically rule it out."

Sherlock sighed.

"Alright," he reluctantly relented. "I confess that... it's a possibility, which I'll keep my mind open to-"

"That's all I ask."

"But I'm not optimistic at this point."

"Just consider all the possible Sherlock.

Sherlock merely grunted.

"Just remember that he wasn't always Mycroft the British Government Sherlock. He was just a little kid at one point, just like you and me."

The conversation didn't go much further than that. There wasn't all that much more Sherlock could draw on with the data he had, and there wasn't much more data John could drag back out of his Mind Palace either. By three o 'clock, John was tucked back up in bed and Sherlock was making the trek back down to the Manor.

Once he finally made it back to his room though, he was met with a really quite worrying sight.

His brother was still fast asleep, but no longer resting soundly. Indeed he was practically thrashing about, positively tangled in sheets and fighting against it, panicked whines sporadically emitting from within a constant litany of frightened murmurs.

Sherlock was torn. He wanted to wake his brother up from the dream which was quite obviously distressing him but he could have sworn that he heard somewhere that you weren't supposed to do so in such situations.

Would it do more harm than good?

Would it be harmful, health-wise? Perhaps he should call John.

And then Mycroft's murmuring increased in volume as the writhing doubled in intensity.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, seizing his brother's thrashing arms before he could hurt himself and giving a light shake. "Brother, wake up."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," Mycroft tearfully uttered, becoming more distressed by the second.

"Mycroft wake up," Sherlock pleaded, shaking a bit more incessantly, this display truly was beginning to disturb him, far more than he would like to admit.

"Please don't-" Mycroft gasped, before cringing.

Sherlock couldn't watch anymore.

"Mycroft!"

Finally, Mycroft did as he was told and woke with such a jolt that he probably would have inadvertently head-butted Sherlock had he not jumped away at the sudden movement, rather ungracefully tripping over his own feet and falling to the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

Mycroft was panting and it took him a moment to realise that he was safe in bed rather than in the midst of his nightmare.

He didn't notice Sherlock until he shifted; pushing himself up to sit rather than lie sprawled out on the floor.

"You had a nightmare," Sherlock murmured, they'd been lucky not to wake anybody thus far, he wouldn't risk discovery by something as amateurish as speaking too loudly.

Finally catching his breath, Mycroft nodded shakily and whispered back, "I gathered."

"You're alright now?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft did the shaky nod again.

"Of course."

"Good," he muttered, before standing up and collapsing back on his side again. "Try to get some more sleep. We leave early tomorrow."

"I know," Mycroft muttered, slowly lowering himself to lie back down on the bed. "You too. You are quite grumpy when you miss a nap."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Thank you for waking me," Mycroft murmured.

Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose you wouldn't like to talk about what the nightmare was about?"

"You wouldn't want to listen."

"I might."

"Really?" Mycroft quietly chuckled.

"Really," Sherlock murmured.

"Touching though that is," Mycroft replied, and he did actually sound quite touched, "I'm afraid you're right. I don't really want to talk about it."

"Your choice," Sherlock yawned. "You know where to find me if you do later."

"Of course," Mycroft murmured.

For a moment there was silence, Sherlock thought that his brother had fallen asleep once more. That illusion was shattered a moment later when said brother whispered again, "Thank you for that," before rolling over so his back was to Sherlock.

Sherlock pretended to sleep. This conversation was getting far too uncomfortable for his liking.

It convinced Mycroft but then he saw no reason why it shouldn't have. Sherlock had put a lot of effort into his sleeping act after all. As a child he's gone so far as to record himself for a whole night in order to perfect it.

For an hour he pretended to sleep in hopes that Mycroft would soon drift off himself and allow Sherlock to let the convincing yet tedious act drop.

It came as quite the alarming surprise when the bed beside him began to shake. Sherlock was just able to catch himself before he glanced over. Surely Mycroft wasn't having a seizure, there were other signs for that weren't there? He would have made Sherlock aware of symptoms before now, surely.

The snuffles and quiet gasps that followed should have comforted him as they assured him that no, nothing as severe as a seizure was inflicting itself upon his brother. And yet it failed to do so because he knew just as much what to do with a crying brother as he did with an epileptic one.

So Sherlock did the only thing he could do, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried very, very hard to fall asleep because what his brother needed was either comfort or privacy, and he, Sherlock, was only capable of providing the latter.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, I've finished the final part. I really cannot begin to apologise for taking so very long to, not only update, but finish this all together. I swear, I truly am sorry.
> 
> Regardless, I really hope you enjoy this, since you've all been waiting for it for so long *head!desk*. Thank you so much to everybody who has left reviews, followed this or even more spectacularly, followed me XD It really does mean so much to me, so truly, thank you.
> 
> Alright, I'll stop talking and let you read. Please enjoy, and once again, thank you so much

The car wouldn't start.

Tobias and Tiberius had both spent hours trying to fix it. Even Sherlock, armed with every scrap of mechanical knowledge he could dredge up from his Mind Palace, and Mycroft, armed with a direct line to her Majesty's most trusted mechanics, had tried their hand at breathing life into the old beast.

Regrettably, none of them enjoyed any sucess.

Aunt Scarlett had taken her car with her to drive Grandmamma to the station in Paris, for her lunchtime train trip back to Bruges and wasn't expected back for some time. Everybody else had left already.

'We'll just call a cab,' Mycroft announced after his fifth call to their plane's captain, delaying take-off for another hour.

'From here?!' Tobias gasped, as if he'd lost his mind. 'It will cost a small fortune.'

'I can cover the expense,' Mycroft assured, already beginning to search for taxi companies on his phone.

Right up until Tiberius snatched it from his grasp, narrowing his eyes reproachfully.

'Absolutely not, Mycroft,' he announced.

'We said we'd get you there and we will,' Tobias continued. 'Or at the very least, we'll make the arrangements.'

Mycroft sighed.

'It's really no problem I assure yo-'

'Mycroft!' Sherlock irritably snapped, 'They're not going to take 'no' for an answer. Just stop arguing and let them find an alternative, this is wasting even more time and I have business to attend to in London this afternoon.'

Mycroft hesitated a moment longer, before reluctantly nodding, smiling politely and replying, 'Of course, you are right. My apologies.'

Twin grins split across their uncle's doughy faces, and with a lot of pomp and fervent assurances that everything will be sorted out in no time they left to phone everybody that they knew and call in favours.

Mycroft sighed.

'Perhaps we should start walking,' he murmured.

Sherlock smirked.

'Legwork,' he reminded.

Mycroft scoffed, shuddering good-naturedly at the reminder.

He seemed to be back to normal Sherlock mused whilst they set about liberating the least sickly looking pastries for breakfast.

He didn't look like he was about to start crying again, which was a relief. Sherlock honestly had no idea what he would do if he was confronted with the particular show of emotion again. It is something that had bothered him since childhood, Mycroft crying. There was just something fundamentally wrong about his big brother who, in spite of all his faults, had somehow become a pillar of strength in his life, falling apart.

He shook his head roughly. Best not think about it.

Other than that, apart from the occasional flinch at raised voices or people coming too close and the occasional daydream, he seemed pretty much himself again.

Sherlock still didn't know the identity of his attacker.

And he still wasn't sold on John's theory. Certainly, it made sense, in an abstract sort of way, but people had been persuaded to believe ridiculous things when the facts had been twisted enough to resemble proof, and Sherlock had no way of knowing if that was what had happened here.

Everything he knew about his brother rebelled against it.

Mycroft was strong, perhaps one of the strongest men Sherlock had ever known (not that he would ever tell him that). The thought of him being beaten, being scared, it simply did not compute with the man he knew, or even the boy he knew, who fought Sherlock's bullies for him and taught him how to cope with the pressures of being an outsider (the inevitable by-product of their intelligence). It just didn't make sense.

And yet in spite of this, something kept niggling away. Memories of Mycroft pleading for forgiveness after the bed incident, his over-reactions to silly things, like running in the house and sitting and standing straight… but that didn't mean anything.

So, Father may have been a strict parent, that didn't automatically equate to abuse. And the bed thing, he'd been 14, of course he would have been humiliated and… well he'd always been a bit of a drama queen.

Besides, Mycroft had once said Father had taught him everything he knew about the science of deduction. Men who abuse their sons do not then choose to mentor them in their free time.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock blinked, glancing up sharply at his brother, sitting across from him.

'Pardon?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'I said, would you please pass the butter,' he sighed, holding out his hand.

Sherlock wordlessly obeyed.

Mycroft frowned.

'Are you alright,' he asked as he slowly spread the butter on his toasted slice of banana bread. 'You've been awfully distracted.'

Sherlock frowned.

Should he ask? He wouldn't get a straight answer, of course, but perhaps he would be able to deduce something from what wasn't said.

But this was Mycroft. He wouldn't let anything slip, and then he'd be on his guard as well. Best play the waiting game. Feign ignorance and catch everything he doesn't bother hiding from a ' _non-existent'_  audience.

'Sherlock?'

That's what he'll do.

Smirking, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and faced his brother.

'There's nothing to worry about Mycroft,' he drawled. 'I've told you already. I have a business this afternoon. A most promising client has requested to see me regarding a vindictive future Sister-In-Law and a set of troublesome university photographs.

Mycroft returned his smirk.

'Most engaging,' he chuckled. 'Try not to fall for the blackmailer this time will you.'

Sherlock blanched.

'We had a mutual respect for each other's intelligence-'

'Is that what the kids are calling it these days?'

'Oh go and eat a cake!'

Chuckling, Mycroft resumed tapping away at his blackberry, not deigning to provide a response.

For half an hour they sat in relative silence (and peace), Sherlock sending irritated (read: whiny) text messages to John and Lestrade whilst Mycroft slowly began to transform his half of the kitchen into some breed of improvised office, with cake ('An ideal set up for you I'd have thought.').

That peace and quiet was quite spectacularly disrupted by their Uncles who, almost the second the clock ticked past ten, burst through the door with loud and victorious cries.

'We've found someone!' Tobias heartily cried. 'Finally!'

'We told you we would,' Tiberius chuckled, pouring himself some of the coffee Mycroft had brewed. 'And you doubted us.'

'Never Uncle,' Mycroft smoothly replied, a polite smile curling his lips. 'So, to whom do we owe our gratitude, other than the both of you, of course?'

'You'll never believe it,' Tobias scoffed, sharing a conspiratory glance with his partner.

'Oh I think I might,' Mycroft replied, and there was something… off with his voice.

Sherlock glanced over, and frowned. He had gone absolutely still, sitting straight and tense in his chair where he'd earlier been quite comfortably reclining and Sherlock, who never put much stock by gut feelings, was hit by the decided wrongness that was radiating off his brother in waves (although his face, as always, gave none of this away).

Tiberius chuckled.

'Well my boy,' he replied, clapping Mycroft soundly on the shoulder (Mycroft tensed further still, although discreetly enough for it to go unnoticed by all but Sherlock), 'Your father will be here within the hour.'

Sherlock's eyes widened as the knuckles of his brother's hands actually turned white where they were folded together on his lap.

'He was only just setting off himself,' Tobias cried, peaking inside the cupboards for even more food.

Mycroft smiled tightly and Sherlock's frown darkened.

'How fortunate,' he calmly replied, before swiftly standing from the table and sweeping from the room, a drawled, 'I'll just go and inform the pilots, they'll be absolutely delighted,' his pardon.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock stood himself and moved to follow him, only to be accosted by his uncles and frog-marched back to the table before he could so much as reached the door.

'I don't think so,' Tobias chuckled, 'The last thing you need is to skip breakfast.'

'Most important meal of the day you know,' Tiberius added.

'God knows you're only skin and bones as it is.'

'How it must break your mother's heart.'

Mycroft returned five minutes later.

'I think I just might go and bring our bags down,' he announced from just inside the doorway, already stepping back out to the hall. 'Won't be long.'

'Oh no you don't,' Tobias cried, 'You need to eat as well. You're almost as bad as your brother.'

'Now I wouldn't say that,' Mycroft chuckled, moving to flee once more only to be grabbed under the arm and hauled back over to the table.

'Skin and bones, the both of you,' Tobias cried, thrusting a downright alarmingly large muffin into his hands. 'Now eat.'

'I really can't,' Mycroft replied, smiling uneasily as Tobias manhandled him into the chair.

'Why not?!' Tiberius cried (Sherlock's eyes narrowed as Mycroft discreetly winced at the outburst).

'Well you see I'm on a diet and-'

'Oh what utter rot!'

'A Diet! There's nothing to you!'

Sherlock tuned them out in favour of searching for clues to disprove John's theory.

Okay, so his hands were shaking a bit, but that could be down to anything: fatigue; lingering nerves from the day before; too much coffee.  
Having said that, his hands had been perfectly steady all morning, right up until their Father had been mentioned.

What else?

Well he'd made the call, or at least  **a**  call, although Sherlock couldn't see any reason why his brother would call anybody but the pilots (he'd been emailing his office all morning). So his reason for leaving the room had been genuine.

Other than that he had re-tucked his shirt, put on a tie and waist-coat and… good lord, he'd put on a shinier pair of shoes. Sherlock struggled to stop himself from rolling his eyes.  
The sad part was that wasn't even all that out of the ordinary for Mycroft, who had been known to change suits before leaving the house. Having said that, on those occasions he was usually trying to impress someone. Out here there were only family around, family who he had been perfectly happy walking around in shirtsleeves before.

Seeing as the only recent change to their plans was their father's presence, it stood to reason that it was him who had inspired Mycroft to change into more formal outfit, which did not sit well with Sherlock.

But then, he had already known that they didn't get on, so it didn't really make a great deal of importance in the grand scheme of things.

There had to be more, surely- well that's interesting.

There were droplets of water littering the shoulders and collar of his crisp white shirt. There was no sign of moisture on his grey waist-coat, so whatever had happened occurred before he put it on.

He could have wet the comb to brush back his hair… but his hair was quite dry… and not brushed back. There were however quite a few patches of moisture beneath his chin, the sides of his neck and the shells of his ears.

Sherlock frowned at that. It wasn't hot, so he hadn't done so to cool down. He hadn't shown any real signs of fatigue throughout the morning and surely he'd drunk enough tea and coffee to stave off any that he'd managed to keep hidden. He wasn't a messy eater, so he wasn't washing his face. It could be nothing of course, but the only other reason for such behaviour Sherlock could think of was as an attempt to calm down a racing mind.

And he was nervous. The instant the announcement had been made, or rather, the second Mycroft worked it out, the behaviour from the wake had returned with full force. Where he had been acting more and more like himself all morning, he was now wincing and flinching and sitting stiffly and avoiding contact with everyone (a difficult task whilst one was in the sights of Tobias or Tiberius Vernet, let alone the both of them).

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully.

This was second time he'd seen Mycroft take a sudden and uncharacteristic turn to nervousness and both times it had been triggered by the mention of their father's impending arrival.

An uncomfortably heavy weight had begun to settle in Sherlock's stomach as John's theory began to sound all the more believable whilst his own reasoning became feebler and feebler.

'It is very nice,' Mycroft politely remarked, smiling up at the men who loomed over him at both sides.

'We did tell you that you would like it,' Tobias replied, chuckling cheerfully as Tiberius clapped his shoulder again (this time Mycroft actually jumped in his seat (Tiberius promptly apologised for knocking what he assumed to be a bruise)).

'Yes,' Mycroft chuckled, smiling tightly again. 'You did. Well, I think I'll go and get those bags now.'

And somehow slipping past the quite profoundly large men, he fled the room without another word.

Sherlock sighed as his Uncle's returned their focus on him.

The facts may not have proved John's theory right, but they had done nothing to disprove it either, which was worrying.

He would just have to pay really close attention when the two main subjects of this conundrum finally met.

* * *

_Sherlock had never been to a hospital before. A proper hospital that is, not the doctor's surgery in town that liked to call itself a hospital._

_He should have been excited, interested at the very least. They were only ten feet from the elevator and he'd already seen someone having their IV readjusted, someone else in the middle of a physiotherapy session and somebody else vomit all over a nurse (who, he had to admit, took it with surprising grace and lack of fuss)._

_And yet he wasn't excited, he wasn't fascinated. Instead, he was terrified._

_It was the first time he was going to see Mycroft for three days, after he almost murdered him at the dinner table (no, not murder, manslaughter. Sherlock hadn't intended for it to- he'd never dreamt-)._

_What if Mycroft hated him?_

_Surely he shouldn't care. He hated Mycroft after all._

_But the thought of Mycroft hating him, actually_ _**hating** _ _him, Sherlock found it left a bad taste in his mouth and his tummy feeling funny._

_'Come on sweetheart,' she murmured, smiling reassuringly._

_Sherlock bit his lip, but followed obediently._

_She squeezed his hand and whispered, 'It's alright sweetie.'_

_Sherlock's eye widened as he realised that his grip on her hand had tightened in his distress._

_With a blush creeping over his cheeks, he quickly dropped it and snapped, 'I know it is.'_

_Mummy sighed._

_'It's okay to be scared-'_

_'I'm_ _**not** _ _scared!' Sherlock snapped with a dark scowled, stuffing his hand into his pockets as he turned to glare moodily at the ward floor._

_Shaking her head, Mummy reached down and ran her fingers through his curly hair, a gesture Sherlock had always found comforting._

_'Well come along then darling,' she murmured, gently nudging him along with her. 'Let's go and find Mycroft, shall we?'_

_'Whatever,' Sherlock muttered with a shrug. 'I don't care.'_

_Mummy's brow arched, but before she could reprimand him for his attitude, a large man with a stethoscope around his neck popped out of an open office door with a big smile spreading slowly across his dark face._

_'Oh, Ms. Vernet, I thought that was your voice,' he rumbled, his voice soothingly deep and slow._

_'Dr. King,' Mummy replied, smiling in returning and quickly shaking the man's hand. 'We were just on our way to see Mycroft. This is my youngest son. Sherlock, say hello.'_

_Sherlock frowned and pressed himself back against his mother's side, fixing the doctor with a calculating stare instead._

_Mummy sighed._

_'He's a bit shy,' she attempted._

_'I am not!' Sherlock snapped._

_'A bit rude then,' Mummy replied with a put upon sigh and roll of her eyes. 'Apologies Doctor.'_

_Dr. King laughed._

_'Nothing to worry about Ms Vernet, I'm afraid young Sherlock here is going to have to work a lot harder to shock me in regards of bad manners.'_

_'Is that a challenge?'_

_'Hush, Sherlock. Is there anything you wanted to talk about, Doctor?'_

_'There is actually, if I could just have a quick word in my office?'_

_'Of course,' Mummy replied, glancing down at Sherlock. 'Sweetheart, could you go and sit by the nurses' station for a moment? The doctor and I won't be long.'_

_'But I don't want-'_

_'Sherlock. Now.'_

_'Fine,' Sherlock sighed, stomping off across the hall and plopping down of the plastic chair with a moody huff._

_Mummy didn't spare him another glance, following the doctor quickly around the corner._

_Sherlock sighed, slumping in his seat. This was going to take forever, he could tell, and the nurses weren't being very interesting at all, just talking about Melissa's relationship with Tom from Oncology (which apparently, is very obvious even though both participants think they've been quite sneaky and managed to hide it)._

_Sherlock groaned and slumped further in his seat, kicking his legs._

_What would the doctor want to talk to Mummy about anyway? She already knew everything about what was wrong with Mycroft surely. Unless something had changed. But he hadn't seemed worried, so it might not be bad. Then again, doctors weren't supposed to panic about these things, were they? And they delivered bad news all the time, they'd get used to it._

_He couldn't tell with just that to go on, he needed more data._

_Sherlock glanced over the counter._

_'It's sweet to watch really,' one nurse, Trudy, chuckled as she set about filling out the sheets on her clipboard. 'Ducking into storage cupboards, making eyes at each other across the ward, he's even started catching the same bus as her, sweet thing'_

_Another pressed her fingers to her chest and loudly sighed, 'Oh, young love.'_

_Sherlock grinned and silently slipped out of his chair._

_They wouldn't notice he was gone for a while, if they ever noticed he's been there to begin with (he hadn't really made himself known, after all)._

_He crept down the white and grey hall, past four doors, before finally finding a Doctor C. King's office._

_The door was open and Sherlock could hear the man's deep voice._

_'- have some concerns, regarding how quickly the infection in his lungs developed. You did say that he'd been sick for about a week, maybe a little longer, correct?'_

_'Yes,' Mummy anxiously replied. 'At least, I believe it is.'_

_'That's alright Ms. Vernet,' Dr. King murmured consolingly. 'Ordinarily that would have given us enough time to catch it in its early stages, for someone of your son's age. He probably could have gone straight home with antibiotics.'_

_'Ordinarily?'_

_Sherlock frowned as the doctor hummed grimly._

_'Indeed. I was finally able to track down some of his earlier hospital records,' he solemnly replied. 'Were you aware that he has suffered from illness three other times in the past four years.'_

_Mummy gasped._

_'I wasn't even aware he had any other records,' she uttered. 'He's 14. How on Earth?'_

_'We're not sure ourselves,' King replied. 'We're running tests to see if there is something predispositioning him to the infection, but nothing has turned up positive yet. We have detected some scarring on his lungs,'_

_'Oh my-'_

_'It is no doubt a result of the past infections. Ms. Vernet, would you like a moment?'_

_'No, no, please,' Mrs Holmes all but whispered. 'I want to know.'_

_Sherlock wasn't sure he did. His heart was pounding against his ribs and he was feeling lightheaded. This was all sounding terribly serious. He wasn't sure he wanted to know just how bad-_

_No, don't be stupid- he_ _**needed** _ _to know._

_Gulping thickly, he crept even closer to the door._

_'I've tried talking to him,' the doctor continued, 'To see why he didn't report it in the early stages; after all, by now he should have recognised the signs.'_

_Mummy sighed._

_'I've tried myself,' she confessed. 'He just keeps saying he didn't want to cause a fuss.'_

_Dr. King hummed again._

_'Yes, he said very much the same to me. Regardless, delaying medical attention as long as he did, especially considering his history, has allowed the infection to become a great deal worse than it needed to be. I'm not telling you this to scare you Ms. Vernet.'_

_'Oh, I understand,' Mummy replied, though she sounded really sad._

_Sherlock's heart began to pound harder still. Why was she upset?_

_'It is a serious illness, Pneumonia,' King continued. 'It's not something to be taken lightly. Though it's not nearly as fatal as it used to be, considering how bad it has become this time around, Mycroft may very well be the exception-'_

_Sherlock felt like his heart had stopped beating._

* * *

As a rule, Sherlock didn't like anybody the instant he met them. That wasn't to say that he disliked them. Rather he liked to approach introductions the way he did crime scenes, with a clear mind and sharp senses. To do otherwise, so far as he could see, was almost unforgivably stupid (and would inevitably end in embarrassment).

And yet, the second Siger Holmes stepped out of his luxury Rolls Royce, Italian loafers crunching against the pebbled drive, a sneer already twisting his puffy, red face into something entirely unpleasant, Sherlock found himself instantly experiencing intense and alarming sensations of loathing towards the man.

He hadn't the slightest idea where his uncles had drawn the comparison between him and his brother. Siger Holmes looked nothing at all like Mycroft.

Where Mycroft was tall, Siger was more so. Not only that, he was just generally large. Not overweight, per se, although there was a distinctive bulge around the old man's middle, implying a sedentary lifestyle and fondness for rich food and liquor (whisky today, if the man's breath was anything to go by); but overall larger featured, and more muscular than Mycroft could ever hope to be.

His features were sharper, his eyes greyer (if Sherlock were the poetic sort, he'd describe them as infinitely colder) and his wide mouth was turned down in an unimpressed sneer that didn't seem to ever shift but to become all the more unimpressed.

No, in comparison to this man, Sherlock would describe his brother as a relatively soft and friendly looking man (which, considering the subject, was really quite telling).

He didn't let any of his distaste show, of course. His first and foremost goal for the morning was determining if their father had: a) attacked Mycroft the other day; and, b) abused him as a child. He needed to gather more evidence and people were always more difficult to read when they were hostile.

So when Tobias enthusiastically waved him over, Sherlock chose to bide his time and just grin and bear it.

Mycroft, had all but fled the second the car had come to a stop, announcing he would fetch the bags. Ordinarily he wouldn't do that, as it could be considered impolite. Therefor he was probably trying to avoid the old man for as long as possible. Sherlock filed the information away.

Siger himself seemed just about as interested in having a big Father/Son moment with Sherlock, as Sherlock was with him, but shook his hand and made brisk small talk regardless, in order to appease their overly-sentimental onlookers (which Sherlock appreciated).

All the while, Mycroft had fetched the bags, helped the driver pack them into the boot, discussed where they were going and how they should get there, apologised for the inconvenience, enquired if he could assist with anything else, insisted that it really was no problem, before finally running out of excuses to avoid becoming a part the touching  _family moment_  and reluctantly coming to join them.

Sherlock promptly sent his uncles back into the house, on a wild goose chase searching for the laptop he insisted was in the bedroom, but was in fact safely in his suitcase. The fewer distractions he had, the better.

'Ah, the prodigal son returns,' Siger drawled, as his customary sneer twisted further still.

'Father,' Mycroft replied, smiling politely and offering a (still slightly trembling) hand to the man.

Siger looked down his nose at it for a moment, before sniffing dismissively and retrieving his phone instead.

Mycroft let his hand drop back to his side.

Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft wouldn't usually take that without comment, and he wouldn't usually just stand there, waiting to be acknowledged the way he was doing right before Sherlock's eyes.

He'd avoided interacting with the man for as long as he possibly could, and Sherlock hadn't seen him so tense in years, since the cocaine days perhaps… no, it was worse than that even.

It may not  _prove_  John's theory, but Sherlock couldn't honestly say that it disproved it either.

They had an unhealthy relationship, more so than Sherlock had anticipated, that was obvious. Where Mycroft was making an effort at civility, their father openly, unabashedly and unnecessarily rudely rebuffed all of those efforts, which was enough for Sherlock to feel justified in disliking him.

But it still wasn't enough to determine abuse… not yet.

And what was Sherlock supposed to do if it did turn out Mycroft had been abused? The thought was just so foreign, he had been so convinced of its impossibility he hadn't even considered it.

What do people do in such situations?

He was broken from his contemplations by another disdainful sniff from their father.

Glancing up from the Blackberry, Siger turned back to Mycroft and, narrowing his eyes, snapped, 'What happened to your face?'

Mycroft blinked.

'Pardon?'

'Your face. Boy. What happened to it?' Siger snapped again, arching a bushy brow significantly.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Mycroft had been asked by everybody he'd passed what had happened, he'd not hesitated once. Surely their father's interest should not have come as such a surprise.

Siger's grey brow arched sharply as he snapped a gruff, 'Well?'

He watched as, once again, the proverbial walls came up around his brother as he cleared his throat and obediently told his story, all diplomatic-smiles and self-depreciation.

'You  _tripped_ ,' Siger scathingly drawled.

Mycroft paused, cleared his throat and cautiously replied, 'Yes, Father,' before pulling his biggest fake-smile yet.

Their father stared for a long moment, waiting until the smile began to waver, before letting out yet another disdainful sniff, turning on his heel and marching away without so much as a word of acknowledgment to either of them.

Mycroft finally allowed the smile to drop entirely.

Sherlock frowned. Well that all got him nowhere.

'Has he always been like that?' he asked.

Mycroft scoffed bitterly.

'This is him on a good day,' he replied mildly, although the slight narrowing of his eyes spoke of nothing but hatred.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and promptly announced, 'I haven't the slightest idea what Mummy saw in him.'

Mycroft scoffed again, but less bitterly and more amused than the last time.

'Nor do I,' he muttered, shaking his head.

Turning to face his brother, Sherlock decided that it was time to dive in head first. Observation was not getting him all that far in way of new information, he was just confirming what he already knew.

'Why are you so scared of him?' he asked, in an attempt to startle a response out of his brother.

It failed.

'I'm not  _scared_  of him,' he calmly replied. 'Weary, perhaps. He's a wearisome man. It's a long trip to the air-field. I'd rather not spend it in a confined space with him in a mood the whole way.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I'm not an idiot, Mycroft,' he said.

'I never suggested you were,' Mycroft replied, frowning.

'You  ** _are_**  scared of him.

Mycroft laughed.

'I'm really not,' he said. 'We have a history, Brother-Mine, that is all. You and I have a history as well-'

' _Our_  history doesn't result in you being terrified of me,' Sherlock stubbornly argued.

'If only you knew.'

'Stop it,' he hissed. 'I am being serious.'

'Well that certainly makes a nice change.'

'Shut. Up. Mycroft,' Sherlock irritably snapped. 'You're just trying to distract me. I'm not-'

'And idiot, you said,' Mycroft drawled, rolling his eyes.

Arching his brow significantly, Mycroft calmly assured, 'There really is nothing to distract you from, Brother. Let's just let it go, shall we?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously and opened his mouth to announce, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be letting it go and Mycroft's lack of co-operation was merely an annoyance, not a deterrent, but was cut off when the front door swung open and Tiberius and Tobias bustled out, announcing their failure to locate the laptop.

Mycroft stepped in before Sherlock could send them off again, suddenly ' _remembering'_ that he had packed it away with his own belongings and apologising from the mix-up.

Before Sherlock could negate that, the driver stepped up and announced that everything was ready to go.

'Excellent,' their father boomed, strolling back over. 'We will leave now them.'

'Are you so eager to get rid of your boys already, Old Man?' Tiberius teased.

Siger turned, smirked, and smoothly replied, 'Of course not.'

He clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder (and where his brother had been beginning to relax again, he was suddenly rigid once more).

'We just don't want to be late. Do we boys?'

Mycroft obediently smiled stiffly and uttered the expected, 'Of course not. Things to do.,' before somewhat sagging with relief the second he was released.

'I'm even less convinced now, than I was before,' Sherlock hissed under his breath as they waved farewell to their Uncles and headed over to the car. 'Why are you playing along?'

'It's for the best,' Mycroft grumbled.

'Bollocks,' Sherlock snapped

He stooped to climb into the car only to be pulled back upright by the upper sleeve of his coat, which was clenched tight in his brother's fist.

Eyes narrowing dangerously, Mycroft leant forward so his mouth was level with Sherlock's ear, and hissed, 'Considering that in this instance,  ** _I_**  am the one who knows our parent the best, perhaps we can safely assume that my opinion is the more reliable one, don't you think, Brother?'

Sherlock frowned and turned to face him.

'And if I don't?' he asked, the acid that question would ordinarily be dripping with notably absent.

Mycroft, before he could stop himself, glanced over at their father, lumbering towards them.

'Just mind your tongue for once in your life, Sherlock,' he hissed, before pushing him into the back of the car and climbing in himself.

Sherlock's cautious stare did not waver as he readjusted himself and buckled in.

'What are you so scared of?' he whispered.

Mycroft froze.

Seeing his chance for something resembling fact, Sherlock leaned forward and announced, perhaps a bit more vehemently than he had planned, 'I won't let him touch you. I swear.'

Mycroft glanced over at him.

The passenger side door swung open and the as their Father's conversation with Tobias and Tiberius came to an end.

'It's not me I'm worried about,' he whispered, before Siger dropped into his seat, closing the door with a loud bang (Mycroft promptly shut his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath).

Sherlock's widened. Confirmation. That was his confirmation. Mycroft was scared of their Father, he saw him as a threat, not only to himself, but Sherlock too, all of the facts added up.

He opened his mouth to reply only to be cut off by Mycroft's hushed, 'Not now-'

'What are you whispering about, Mycroft?!' Siger snapped, shooting a sharp glare over his shoulder.

Mycroft immediately averted his eyes to avoid the old man's.

'Nothing, Father,' he swiftly replied.

Siger turned in his seat, eyes narrowed and brows drawn sharply down and together.

Sherlock's eyes widened further still, until narrowing into furious slits.

The leather gloves he'd been wearing throughout their earlier conversation had been removed and the purple-red bruises dusted across his knuckles were displayed for all to see.

There was no denying it now. Siger had definitely been the attacker from the day before.

'When I ask a question, Mycroft,' he said, dangerously quiet, 'I expect an honest answer.'

And the childhood abuse wasn't looking all that ridiculous anymore either.

Mycroft nervously cleared his throat again, and quickly murmured, 'We were just revising our schedule, Father.'

'Speak up, boy,' Siger growled with frustration.

Sherlock watched, astonished as his brother obediently repeated himself louder, a bright red blush creeping up from beneath the colour of his shirt.

Siger shook his head and gave a disgusted snort.

'You've not changed,' he grumbled.

Mycroft sighed and turned to stare out the window, a blush tinting his neck, cheeks and ears a bright red whilst his hands balled into tight fists on top of his thighs all the while.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and held his tongue, biding his time. Siger Holmes would not be getting away with that.

* * *

_The exception?! Mycroft was the exception? They thought Mycroft was dying?! The stupid git was dying just because he had to go and make a point to Sherlock and… well that wasn't entirely true was it._

_Biting back a gasp he scrambled away from the door._

_He was dying because Sherlock had gone and run him out of the house. He'd killed his own brother._

_The doctor was still talking but Sherlock didn't stay to hear anymore._

_He haltingly stumbled back to his feet._

_What was he supposed to do now? Would the police come for him, when it was discovered who was_ _**really** _ _to_

_blame? What would Mummy do – with one son in the ground and the other locked up for putting him there. Gulping thickly, he decided it would be best if he ran for it, best for everybody. That way, Mummy wouldn't have to feel obligated to visit her son's murderer._

_He shook his head roughly as his vision began to blur._

_He had to see Mycroft first. Whether he was on death's door or merely approaching it, he had to know that Sherlock was sorry._

_The blood continued to roar in his ears as he, almost in a daze, stumbled down the hall in search of him._

_Room 17: Not Mycroft._

_Room 16: Not Mycroft_

_Room 15: Not Mycroft_

_Room 14: Not Mycroft_

_Room 13: Not Mycr- wait! Bed 6 looked-_

_'Mycroft?' he called hesitantly, inching through the door._

_The sheets shifted and Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed._

_His terror increased tenfold as he chewed at his lower lip and crept over to the bed in question, dragging over the chair standing beside it for visitors._

_Climbing on top and he tentatively peered over the edge, feeling his heart leap up into his throat the second he did._

_Mycroft was really pale. That was the first thing that struck Sherlock. Really, really pale, except around his eyes and lips, which looked bruised, like someone had punched him. And there were things hanging out of him, needles stuck in his hands and tubes coming out of his nose and… Sherlock gulped and squeezed his eyes shut, only to snap them open a second later._

_'Hello,' Mycroft croaked. 'Wasn't expecting to see you here.'_

_Clearing his throat, which felt like it was shrinking, Sherlock slowly murmured, 'Mummy brought me.'_

_'I figured,' Mycroft huskily replied. 'Where is she?'_

_Sherlock gulped again._

_'T-talking to the doctor.'_

_Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed._

_'Ah.'_

_Sherlock bowed his head and, sniffling a little, mumbled, 'I'm sorry, Mycroft.'_

_Mycroft blinked, and if Sherlock had been looking he would have witnessed a rare show of profound shock flash across his brother's face._

_'Um, it's alright,' he awkwardly replied, carefully clearing his throat before asking, 'Why are you apologising?'_

_Biting his lips, Sherlock glanced up and guiltily replied, 'You'd have never got sick if I wasn't trying to keep you outside all the time.'_

_Mycroft slowly inclined his head._

_'Perhaps not,' he conceded._

_Sherlock sniffled again._

_'I didn't mean for this to happen,' he whispered just a tad tearfully._

_Mycroft sighed._

_'Although I really do appreciate the remorse, it's really is alright, Sherlock,' he murmured. 'I get sick easily, that's all. It's not your fault.'_

_'It is!' Sherlock keened._

_'Sherlock-'_

_'I didn't mean it!'_

_'Sherlock.'_

_'I mean, if I knew it would kill yo-'_

_'I'm sorry, wait a moment…_ kill _me?'_

_And for the second time that day, Sherlock's heart felt like it had stopped beating._

_His head snapped up and his eyes widened with horror._

_'Nobody's told you?'_

_'That I'm dying?' Mycroft coughed as he pushed himself into a more upright position. 'No, nobody's told me that. I think I would remember.'_

_Sherlock didn't think it was possible, but he felt even worse than before._

_'Oh no,' he uttered, almost inaudibly._

_'Sherlock,' Mycroft sternly snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. 'Who has been telling you that?'_

_Sherlock gulped._

_'Sherlock, tell me now!'_

_Dropping his gaze down to his hands, which he was wringing in his lap, Sherlock softly whispered, 'I- uh, I… the doctor wanted to talk to Mummy alone. S-She told me to wait with the nurse's, but it was boring and I was curious. So, I found the doctor's office, and they were talking inside, and they were talking about how sick you were, a-and how much worse than usual it was a-a-and how pneumonia wasn't very fatal these days, but because of how bad it is, you… you…' he cleared his throat, 'Y-you are one of the exceptions. That means you're going to die. I'm sorry.'_

_Mycroft allowed himself to collapse back against his pillows, and when Sherlock finally gathered the courage to glance up, was shocked to find him smiling._

_'Why are you smiling?!' he cried. 'I just told you you're dying and you're smiling?!'_

_Mycroft let out what looked to be a painful laugh._

_'Mycroft?!'_

_'Sherlock, did you actually hear the doctor say that?' he asked, still grinning even as he rubbed circles over his chest._

_Sherlock scowled and snapped, 'Yes!'_

_'Exactly that?' he asked. 'Pneumonia is rarely fatal, but I_ _**am** _ _the exception?'_

_Sherlock nodded quickly, before stopping and frowning as he thought it over again._

_Actually, he didn't really hear him say that he Mycroft's case was_ definitely _fatal, had he?_

_'He said it 'very well may be',' he murmured, glancing up at Mycroft with wide eyes. 'That still means you might die.'_

_Mycroft grinned._

_'The doctor did actually talk to me earlier,' he murmured soothingly. 'Not about me dying, but he's still a bit cross with me for not taking it as seriously as I ought to have. So he told me that if I carried on ignoring the symptoms if this happened again, although pneumonia's not nearly as fatal these days-'_

_'You might be the exception,' Sherlock slowly finished._

_Mycroft chuckled._

_'-_ _ Next time _ _, yes,' he replied._

_Biting his lip, Sherlock warily asked, 'So, you're not going to die?'_

_Mycroft's rueful smile softened._

_'I'm not going to die,' he confirmed. 'Not this time at least. Sorry.'_

_'S'okay,' Sherlock mumbled, sniffling a little._

_Mycroft leaned over and gently ruffled his hair (and Sherlock, surprisingly, found it just as comforting as when Mummy did it), before sinking back into his pillows, murmuring, 'It's nice to know you care.'_

_'Yeah, well don't do it again!' Sherlock snapped, shuffling up to his knees and promptly flicking his big, fat nose with one hand whilst the other rubbed roughly at his own eyes. 'You great big, fat, stupid, drama queen! You scared Mummy!'_

_'Ow! You were remorseful a second ago, don't spoil it.'_

_'That's until I realized you're just being cry-baby again!'_

_'I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you! You said so yourself!'_

_'You're just doing it for attention!'_

_'Unbelievable- hey! Give me back my book!'_

_20 minutes later an incredibly irate Mummy dashed into the room with Doctor King hot on her heels, both almost collapsing with relief upon spotting Sherlock, although neither acted on it as at the time, he'd been standing on the end of Mycroft's bed, gleefully threatening the safety of his copy of '_ Animal Farm' _in spite of the former's spluttered objections and orders to return it._

_Nobody other than the two of them ever learned of Sherlock's first real display of true affection and regard for Mycroft, and though their day to day interaction never changed all that much, neither of them ever really forgot it._

_The very high quality umbrella Mycroft found laying across his pillow upon arrival back home, the one that cost one little boy the entire contents of his money tin and went on to guard its recipient from the elements for years to come, was testament to that._

* * *

By the time the car was moving, Siger had poured himself three fingers of whisky (without so much as glancing to see if Sherlock or Mycroft might have been interested in a glass, naturally) and had drunk a third of that before the tyres had touched the cracked bitumen of the country road. He kept that pace up for the length of their journey together.

And as the liquor flowed, so did the old man's words, bitter and scathing each and every one of them.

'How long will it take for us to reach the air field Richards?' he eventually asked after his fifth glass.

'A little under an hour, Sir?'

'Of course,' he spat, twisting around in his seat to snap at them, 'You two ought be bloody grateful.'

'We are, Father,' Mycroft replied, before Sherlock could get a word in (and feeling the way he was, it would have been quite a choice few words of that).

'I'm taking time out of my schedule for this,' he carried on, oblivious to his youngest son's flaring temper.

'I assure you, Father, we appreciate it,' Mycroft insisted, his tone earnest in spite of the muscle twitching defiantly in his jaw.

'Don't get smart with me,' Siger snarled, eyes flashing dangerously.

Mycroft tensed reflexively at the man's anger, and promptly averted his eyes again.

'My apologies. I didn't mean to be,' he softly replied.

Siger sniffed and turned back around to sit properly in his seat.

Sherlock had never hated someone as much as he did that man.

'You should have thought ahead. Stupid boy.'

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he too glared down at his clenched fists.

Sherlock knew that his brother had always hated being called 'boy', even when he was one, and yet he'd not said a word voicing his distaste for the term.

Instead he calmly, if not somewhat meekly, pointed out, 'The car broke down, Father.'

'Excuse me?!' Siger snarled, twisting back around sharply.

Once again, Mycroft went rigid at the action, but repeated himself regardless.

'The car broke down.' He said again, his tone calm in spite of the pronounced twitch in his jaw. 'It was unavoidable. If it were inconvenient, we could have called-'

'Do  _not_  talk back to me!' Siger hissed, eyes flashing dangerously.

For a brief moment, Mycroft defiantly held his Father's gaze and quietly stood his ground.

Of course, it didn't last. Sherlock watched with wide eyes as the old man's steely grey eyes flashed dangerously, the muscles in his large hand visibly shifted beneath his skin, and his brother's ordinarily iron-strong will, deserted him entirely.

Sherlock's fists clenched of their own volition as he watched him shamefacedly avert his eyes once more and murmur another apology.

Siger was still not satisfied.

'Speak clearly,' he sneered.

Mycroft sighed, and obliged.

'And sit up straight,' he hissed, turning back in his seat. 'I didn't raise you to slouch like some sullen adolescent.'

Sherlock grit his teeth and tried to stop himself from saying something that would make the situation worse.

He'd bide his time and wait until they reached the air-field, that way he could confront the bastard without Mycroft around, or at least give his brother the option of leaving.

That was the smart thing to do. But it wasn't easy.

He had never,  ** _never_** , seen his brother beaten down and downright humiliated, the way he was at the hands of that man, their  _father_.

He'd seen people try, he'd seen many try. Each and every one of them failed. Mycroft had always managed to outwit them or fight them off somehow. Even when on the rare occasion he didn't come off all that great from a fight, they never managed to truly defeat him. He always got the last word or had some master-plan in mind. With him, it was very much win a battle, lose a war. It was one of the few things that he and Sherlock had in common.

But this, Sherlock had never seen, he'd never  _wanted_  to see his brother like this, humiliated, broken, defeated.

And Siger showed no inclination of letting the matter rest. In fact, he seemed to just be warming up.

'What do you do with yourself, Sherlock?' the old man asked, glancing over at him.

'Sherlock's a consultant for Scotland Yard,' Mycroft swiftly replied, before Sherlock could let loose a less than polite reply. 'He helps the homicide division solve their most obscure cases-'

'Is he mute?' Siger asked, cutting him off.

Mycroft blinked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your brother, is he mute?' Siger asked, deceptively calm.

The twitch returned.

'No, Father. He is not.'

'Then cease being impertinent and let him speak for himself,' he sneered.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, jaw clenched tight enough to warrant another visit to the dentist in the near future, before clearing his throating and smoothly replying, 'Yes, of course. My apologies.'

Sherlock's frown darkened.

Mycroft glanced over at him, arching his brow significantly.

He got the message implied in the gesture. 'Tread carefully, Brother'.

And going completely against his nature and desire, he obeyed and dutifully carried on where Mycroft left off.

'Well yes,' he drawled, lacing his fingers together on top of his lap, lest Father spotted them clenching into fists. 'As Mycroft said, I consult with the detectives of Scotland Yard. I'm the one they call when they're out of their depth. Which is alw-' Mycroft cleared his throat significantly (earning himself a sharp glare from Siger). Sherlock sighed, and irritably grumbled instead, '-Awfully good of them.'

Siger hummed, vaguely impressed.

Sherlock felt a twitch beginning to work in his own jaw.

Was his approval supposed to mean something to him?!

'Engaging work is it?' Siger asked.

'I'd hardly waste my time on it if it weren't,' replied simply, not trusting himself to say more.

Siger rewarded his response with an approving grunt.

Sherlock's irritation grew.

'And it pays well I would expect.'

'I get by.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Mycroft's lips twitching with amusement at that.

It didn't last long.

'It's good to see at least one of my sons inherited my intellect,' Siger announced, polishing off yet another snifter of whisky before filling it back up with another three fingers.

Sherlock frowned.

'One of us?' he questioned, ignoring Mycroft's furious signals to stop there.

This man surely couldn't be implying- he certainly could be so idiotic as to-

'I'd have hated to have two  _useless_  sons. Plodding along mindlessly after  _politicians_ , really, I haven't any idea how you can look at yourself in the mirror, Mycroft. I can hardly bear to see you myself'

He twisted around to face Mycroft again, who, in spite of himself, shrunk back away from him.

'Honestly - pencil-pushing, at your age.'

Sherlock gaped as his brother sighed and took every ridiculous insult their father dealt out.

'I always knew that you would amount to nothing,' he carried on, poison dripping from his thin, twisted lips. 'I told you to mind your place, didn't I? I warned you about biting off more than you could chew. You should have listened to me. But you didn't and look what has become of you, a mere civil-servant who hasn't seen the hint of a promotion in over a decade. Pathetic.'

He hadn't really meant to do it. Of course, he didn't regret it in the slightest, but he had been quite invested in waiting until later, for Mycroft's sake. But there was only so much Sherlock could take. The old bastard being gruff with him was one thing, but Sherlock would not sit by and watch in passive acceptance as he openly belittled his brother.

Mycroft mightn't like it, or appreciate it, but had it been the other way around, he would have done the same. Of that, Sherlock was certain.

With blood pumping furiously in his ears, his eyes narrowed hatefully, he sneered in response, 'You really are a tedious little man.'

Never had he seen Mycroft allow his jaw to hang the way it did in that instant, nor had he believed it was possible for a man's face to go quite the shade of purple-red that their father's had.

'What did you just say to me?' Siger gasped raggedly.

'Oh Christ,' Mycroft uttered.

'I said you are a  _tedious._ Little. I stand firmly by it,' Sherlock retorted, his hands balled into tight fists by his side. 'My only regret is that I forgot to mention how much of an odious tic you are in the same breath. But now I've gotten that out, I'm thoroughly satisfied.'

'Could you pull over, Mr Richards?' Mycroft hurriedly called, unbuckling his seatbelt. 'Now please.'

Sherlock followed suit, but could tell he had already gone too far to avoid the fireworks and decided to get it all over with whilst he had the chance. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

'Everything I've been able to deduce about you, every scrap of information I've encountered over the years and most of all, every syllable that has come out of your vile mouth has done nothing but support my assessment,' he announced as the car drew to a stop and Mycroft hurriedly pushed his door open and started pulling on his sleeve.

They were out of the car and the driver was pulling their bags from the boot, shooting them glances that were equal parts confused and alarmed.

'Just be quiet and let me handle this,' Mycroft hissed as the passenger side door swung open so forcefully it bounced back with a loud bang.

'No!' Sherlock cried. 'He's an idiot. Somebody has to say it and clearly you're not going to-'

'Sherlock! Shut up!'

'Why?! What is he going to do?!'

With an outraged snarl, Siger was finally able to pull himself out of the car and was lumbering over to them, with biceps bulging, and fists clenched tight.

'Father,' Mycroft appealed, and edge of panic creeping into his otherwise calm voice as he moved to stand between him and Sherlock.

'Say that to me again, you little bastard?!' Siger panted, outraged to the point of breathlessness already. 'Say it and see what happens.'

'He didn't mean it,' Mycroft insisted, backing both himself and Sherlock away, attempting to put distance between them and Siger. 'He just- '

'Mycroft, stop defending me,' Sherlock snapped. 'I meant exactly what I said.'

Mycroft dared to twist around, hissing another order for silence, only to have Sherlock duck around him, facing off with the man.

'I don't know what exactly it is you've done to my brother to make him so fearful of you,' he snarled, stepping forward so he and his father were practically nose to nose. 'But what I do know, makes me sick-'

'Sherlock-!'

'I  _know_  you were the one who attacked him yesterday,' he growled.

Siger hissed, and shot a disgusted glare over Sherlock's head.

'You never could take anything like a man you pathetic excus-'

Acting on impulse, Sherlock shoved him hard, cutting him off mid-sentence and forcing him to stumble back a couple of steps as he, whilst angrily barking, 'No, you're fighting with me now! And if anybody is a pathetic excuse of anything: a husband; Father; Man; Human being, it's you!'

'You little bastar-'

'Oh spare me,' Sherlock hissed. 'Back on topic, I  **know**  you attacked him yesterday, and if I didn't, I would after that little outburst. What I have not been able to determine for sure, is whether this has happened before.'

His lips began to twist with disgust.

'So,  _Father_ ,' he hissed, lifting his chin defiantly, staring the man straight in the eye, 'Is what the facts are telling true? Did you abuse my brother? Are you that sad an excuse of a-'

Suddenly, everything went bright white, and for a second, Sherlock didn't register anything at all. And then he hit the ground… hard.

* * *

_Sherlock just wanted to go home._

_School had been absolutely horrendous. His head hurt, it had been that boring. His hands and knees hurt, scraped as they were, after Katie Solomon tripped him up at break. Even the teachers had been mean to him, shouting at him and calling him a smartarse in class(Sherlock hadn't even been rude, he'd just been answering the questions. Everybody still laughed)._

_He just wanted to go home and climb into his nest of blankets under his bed to forget that the rest of the human race existed for an hour or two. That was all._

_'Ha! Nice one Jamie!' Collins crowed as another pebble collided with the back of Sherlock's skull. 'Head shot!'_

_'Hand one over. It's my turn!'_

_Sherlock sighed and hunched his shoulders; miserably pressing on as yet another pebble was thrown._

_It would seem that that small mercy was simply too much to ask for._

_Collins, Tucker and their merry band of morons had been waiting for him at the doors of his classroom to carry on their campaign against him, having clearly been unsatisfied with the amount of abuse they'd doled out at lunch._

_Now, Sherlock couldn't even go home, let alone to his nest, lest the bullying gits discovered where he actually lived (having kept it secret this long had taken all of Sherlock's not inconsiderable skill)._

_No, he was just going to have to find somewhere to hide, or at the very least, wait it out, until they grew bored and left him alone for the day._

_But where should he go?_

_All of his usual bolt-holds had been discovered (and promptly trashed) the last few times he'd been forced to flee from them, and he didn't want to risk the security of the remaining few._

_The woodlands weren't that far off, and if he could get enough distance between them, he could lose them in there. But then he ran the risk of getting lost himself, tripping and hurting himself or by far the worst and most likely possibility; getting caught by a gang of notoriously malicious bullies, without the benefit of being in a semi-public area when it happened._

_Sherlock shuddered. The woods were out._

_So where?_

_He could go fence-hopping again and hope that he was fast enough to evade them. But the last time that had happened Ms. Tibbens had dragged him home by his ear and told Mummy she had half a mind to call the police._

_The boys were drawing closer._

_Maybe it would be worth it, if he just avoided her yard._

_But they might still catch him and then he'd be in the same trouble as he would in the woodlands_ _**and** _ _he would be trespassing too. A kicking and an ASBO._

_Probably not the best option, but what else could he do?_

_'What's he even wearing?!' Collins jeered. 'It's down to his sodding knees!'_

_Sherlock bowed his head further, hunching his shoulders and wrapping Mycroft's blazer tighter around him. They'd been running late, he wanted to shout. Sherlock had forgotten his coat and jumper. He'd_ _**had** _ _to wear Mycroft's! It was hardly his fault he was older and fatter and bigger and- OH!_

_Of course! Mycroft! The park! The park with its lovely, big trees he could climb up and hide in, until the bullied gave up! It wasn't far off, just around the corner._

_Another pebble bounced off his head, harder than before. They were getting impatient. His window of opportunity was there but it was closing._

_'Guys come on,' one of the elder members of the gang, Tony, sighed. 'This is getting borings. Let's just get it over with.'_

_'But Tony!' Jaimie Tucker whined. 'This is just the foreplay. Makes it more fun when we really get down to it.'_

_Oh bravo Jamie. Two sexual innuendos in the one sentence, you devil you. Sherlock rolled his eyes._

_'Well it's too much bloody foreplay,' Tony grumbled. 'I've got training tonight, so if you wanna hang out, just give him a kicking and get it over with, or I'm leaving now.'_

_Jamie sighed and Sherlock knew his time was rapidly running out._

_'Oh, alright then-'_

_He wasn't going to make it. They were too close. He needed a distraction._

_'You're so impatient.'_

_Throwing rock? No. Evasive manoeuvres? Useless. Kicking dirt? More so. Think Holmes Think! …Ah Ha!_

_'Hey Holmes! Come here for a second- Jesus Fuc-'_

_'You little shit!' Collins shrieked from the pavement, groping frantically at his nose which Sherlock suspected (and sorely hoped) had begun to bleed as a result of the sudden impact with the conveniently placed and delightfully springy, overhanging Juneberry tree branch._

_He let out a breathless little giggle as he dashed across the road as fast as he could, Jamie and his friends hot on his heels. He'd never expected it would actually work._

_'Get back here you little bastard!' Jamie roared, far too close for Sherlock's liking._

_He dropped his bag, hoping it would increase his speed and act as an obstacle for his pursuers. Just a little further._

_'Holmes!'_

_Almost there, almost- stars… he was seeing stars._

_Rough hands grabbed his arms and hauled his sharply to his feet._

_Sherlock cursed. He was never going to leave his shoes untied ever again, no matter how irritating it was to keep tying them. Too impractical. Maybe if he just slipped them off instead of untying them-_

_A sharp clip around the ear brought his attention back to Jamie and a (Sherlock tried not to smile) bloody face Collins, looming over him._

_'Pay attention you freak!' Jamie snapped, whacking his head again._

_Sherlock shook it roughly, before turn to fix his glare on the boys._

_'Or else you'll do what exactly?' he sneered._

_Well he was going to get beaten up anyway, no need to forsake his pride now._

_'Hit me? I thought you were going to anyway.'_

_'You know something,' Jamie growled, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's tie, half strangling him as he pulled him closer. 'You're not half as smart as you think you are.'_

_'All evidence to the contrary,' Sherlock breathlessly retorted._

_Jamie scowled and drew his fist back._

_'You need to learn,' he snarled, 'When to shut up.'_

_Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the pain of the punch to slam into him and make him see white like it always did… but it didn't come._

_Everything had suddenly gone quiet and- were they waiting for him to open his eyes to hit him. Was that it?_

_'What the hell?!' Jamie cried._

_Sherlock's eyes snapped open and the scene that met him did nothing to convince him that he was not unconscious already, or at the very least, suffering from concussion, because Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes, his boring, lazy, won't lay a finger on anybody big brother Mycroft, was clutching Jamie's wrist so tight that his knuckles had gone white and Jamie's hand was beginning to turn a dark red._

_'Get off me you creep,' Jamie cried, as he unsuccessfully tried to shake him off. 'This hasn't got anything to do with you.'_

_'Well I'm afraid it does actually,' Mycroft smoothly replied, eyes narrowing. 'So I suggest you unhand my brother this instant.'_

_Sherlock's eyes widened._

_This was… new. Nobody had stood up for him before. Ever. Especially not to_ Jamie Tucker _._

_Unfortunately, the reason why nobody stood up to Jamie Tucker was lumbering over with all his upper sixth goons in tow._

_'Then I suggest you_ _**unhand** _ _mine,' Shane Tucker sneered, drawing closer, until he and Mycroft were nose to nose._

_'You're his brother?' Mycroft asked, releasing Jamie, who in turn, had let go of Sherlock, in favour stepping back so to watch the bigger fight in the making._

_Tucker drew himself up to his full (impressive) height, puffing out his muscled chest and clenching his fists (Like a Gorilla, a voice in the back of Sherlock's head supplied)._

_'Well I sure aint his sister,' he growled._

_Mycroft smiled._

_'Most amusing,' he quipped, not backing down (and if he weren't about to get the stuffing beaten out of him, Sherlock would be impressed.)_

_'I suggest,' He drawled, 'That you control your brother.'_

_'Control him?' Tucker echoed, a scowl darkening his thickset features._

_'Oh I see, you're incapable of simple comprehension,' Mycroft retorted. 'Very well. I do not want to see or hear or even suspect that my brother is being hassled by_ _**yours** _ _any longer. Is that clear?'_

_Tucker sneered._

_'Leave the kids to their business,' he snarled. 'You're brother's a mouthy shit. He deserves what he gets.'_

_Sherlock scowled._

_Mycroft didn't though. Instead he lifted his chin up defiantly and retorted, 'And yours is a bully and a coward and deserves everything he_ _**will** _ _get. But his future demise, though a vague solace, is of no real use right now. So I'll tell you again. Control him, or I will be coming after you. Are we clear?'_

_Tucker laughed._

_'We're clear,' he scoffed. 'You're a mouthy shit too.'_

_Mycroft smirked._

_'I see we_ _**do** _ _understand each other.'_

_Sherlock could see it coming. The muscles of his arms suddenly tensed, he was stepping back to give himself room to move, this wasn't going to end well._

_However before he could begin to shout a warning, Tucker was already moving._

_He drew his arm back, his muscles positively bulging, and swung a punch, aiming to hit Mycroft square in the jaw._

_But he missed._

_Mycroft had swiftly leant backwards, far enough for Tucker's swing to_  just _fall short, knocking him off balance enough and providing him, Mycroft, with enough momentum to swing him fully around, twist his arm up sharply behind his back, before roughly pushing him against the trunk of the tree Sherlock had not minutes ago attempted to escape up._

_'Tucker!' one of the sixth formers cried, rushing forward to grab Mycroft._

_'Piss off!' Tucker snarled. 'I can handle this!'_

_The boy stopped dead._

_'Eh?!'_

_'I said fuck off!'_

_Holding up his hands, the boy stepped back and re-joined the group._

_Mycroft smirked._

_'How convenient.'_

_Tucker growled._

_'I know you,' he hissed. 'You're in the year below me. House, or Howard or something.'_

_'Holmes,' Mycroft replied. 'A pleasure I'm sure.'_

_'You think you're going to get away with this you weirdo?!' Tucker growled. 'I'll make you wish you were never fucking born!'_

_Mycroft smirk._

_'Is that a fact?' he murmured. 'You'd hardly be the first to try. And certainly not the first to fail.'_

_'I know how to get to losers like you,' Tucker laughed nastily._

_Mycroft laughed himself._

_'I'm sure you do. However, you see, the problem is, I too know how to_ _**get to** _ _losers like you.'_

_Sherlock watched with wide eyes as Mycroft tightened his grip on the bully and leant forwards so his mouth was level with Tucker's ear._

_'You see,' he whispered, quiet enough for only Tucker, Jamie and Sherlock to hear, 'I know everything about you. I know that your name is Shane William Tucker. I know you live in 456 O'Brian Drive. I know your mother's name is Melanie and that she's a paralegal for White and Son's in town. I know that you have a West Highland Terrier and a Ginger Tabby cat as pets. I know that your father lives in Edinburgh, practicing as a lawyer, which is probably how your parents met in the first place. I know that they're separated. I know that you're not upset about that. He made you feel worthless, abusive no doubt, to you and your brother I expect – ah yes, he's given you away. Is that why you both attack and torment those who can't fight back? To get that power back, to make yourself feel like a god after feeling so little for so long? Well, let me tell you something, it might not mean much now, right now it might still just be swept under the rug of 'boys being boys', but these things don't stop, they deteriorate, they_ _**fester** _ _. If you keep going down this road you_ _**will** _ _end up becoming your father and your children will suffer how you suffered, worse even. And if you don't step up and actually be a big brother to him, your brother will end up that way too.'_

_'I will not!' Jamie shrieked. 'I'm nothing like him!'_

_'You're beating up children younger than you, not even because you're angry or upset but because you find it fun,' Mycroft retorted. 'You're worse than him.'_

_'You don't know what you're talking about!' Tucker snarled, bucking against the tree in an attempt to break free, only to be held in place by Mycroft._

_He chuckled._

_'Incorrect once again,' he coolly replied. 'Either way, all of that is of no importance to me. If you grow up to beat your children, I truly couldn't care less. No, what_ _**I** _ _care about it that you are harassing_ _**my** _ _brother. So just think about this, I know where you live, I know where your mother works, I know where your father is, I know how to contact him and I have no issue with using that knowledge to my advantage if I ever hear that Sherlock has been hassled by you, your brother or any of your friends. Are we clear?'_

_'I can get you done for that!' Tucker snarled. 'You're threatening my family. The cops can knick you for that.'_

_'They could. But you've not got any evidence.'_

_'I heard it!' he snapped. 'I'll file a report.'_

_'Shane, you can carve it in stone for all I care, I will still deny it,' Mycroft laughed. 'It will be your word against ours and we will be making a counter claim. Really, who do you think they're going to believe was the one making threats… or_ _**promises** _ _?'_

_Tucker growled and began to thrash against the tree._

_'I'll fucking get you for this you bastard!'_

_'And you're welcome to,' Mycroft replied, releasing his hold on the elder boy, stepping back as he sprang away from the tree and stumbled back to join his goons, who'd had the good sense to keep well out of it. 'Just keep in mind, I will be getting my own back for whatever grievance either I or Sherlock here suffer, so if I were you, I'd break the habit of a lifetime and do something clever.'_

_Tucker's fists were still clenched at his side as his chest heaved with each breath._

_Mycroft smiled pleasantly, tilting his head to the side._

_'Well?' he prompted._

_Sherlock could see the muscles in his biceps working, tensing and relaxing sporadically, but he didn't make any move to act on those impulses._

_Mycroft's smile widened, in something almost predatory and, Sherlock thought, really quite scary._

_Tucker snarled._

_'Come on, Jamie.'_

_'What?!' Jamie squawked._

_'I said come on!' Tucker snapped, making Jamie flinch and scurry to obey._

_'Good choice, Tucker,' Mycroft drawled, stooping down to collect Sherlock's belongings before calling, 'Come along, Sherlock. We can't spend the entire afternoon loitering in the park.'_

_Sherlock idled a moment longer, watching as the Tucker's and their gangs moodily retreated, before letting out an astonished laugh, turning tail and dashing off after his brother._

_'How did you do that?!' he demanded the second he reached him. 'You've never met him before! How?!'_

_Mycroft smirked, a stark contrast to the sickly green pallor his skin had taken._

_'I merely observed,' he replied. 'Just as you do.'_

_'Yeah, but I've never been able to do it like that!' Sherlock cried. 'I always get things wrong. You didn't get even one!'_

_'I've had more practice,' Mycroft replied with a shrug._

_'Can Father do it? Can he do what we can do?' Sherlock asked. 'Did he teach you?'_

_Mycroft grimaced, hunching his shoulders as a chilly breeze blew around them._

_'I did learn a lot from him,' he hesitantly murmured. 'He's very good at it, of course. There's nothing that can be hidden from him. He sees it all.'_

_Sherlock grinned._

_Mycroft didn't return it, but then, Sherlock didn't care all that much._

_'You need to tutor me,' he announced as the turned down the lane where their house stood. 'It's only fair.'_

_Mycroft scoffed._

_'That would require you actually spending time with me,' he murmured. 'And listening to me. I don't hold out much hope.'_

_'I will,' Sherlock promised. 'I'll listen to everything. I swear.'_

_Mycroft's brows arched._

_'And why exactly does this mean so much to you?' he asked._

_Sherlock shrugged, stuffed his hands into his pockets and said nothing._

_'Gone shy have we?' Mycroft laughed._

_'I am not shy!'_

_'Don't I know it,' Mycroft retorted. 'So, do enlighten me. Why does the science of deduction appeal to you so much?'_

_Focusing steadfastly on the pebble he was kicking down the path, Sherlock boldly replied, 'If I can do all that, nobody would ever pick on me ever again.'_

_Mycroft blinked._

_'Do people pick on you often?' he asked._

_Sherlock shrugged again._

_'Sometimes,' he murmured. 'Most of the time they don't bother me much. But every now and then…'_

_Mycroft grimaced._

_'Let me know,' he said, 'Next time anybody… takes an interest.'_

_Sherlock's face darkened into a scowl._

_'I can manage on my own,' he sneered. 'I don't need your help.'_

_'Doesn't mean you can't use it,' Mycroft reasoned._

_Sherlock snapped. 'I don't need anyone. I'm better on my own. Safer.'_

_Mycroft shrugged._

_'Tough,' he replied. 'You're not alone anymore. Neither of us are. We're brothers and brothers are supposed to stick together.'_

_Sherlock scowled._

_'That's stupid,' he grumbled._

_'Oh yes,' chuckled Mycroft, 'These things are rarely anything but.'_

_'I don't do stupid things.'_

_'I beg to differ.'_

_Sherlock hissed his disapproval and Mycroft chuckled once more._

_'Ordinarily neither do I,' he continued, 'But while this Fraternal Loyalty lark means nothing to you, it means a great deal to me. So next time someone starts on you, you tell me and I'll take care of it. Either that or I'm simply going to have to find out for myself.'_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes._

_'You're such a control freak,' he grumbled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his school blazer._

_Mycroft smirked._

_'I am partial to a little of it, I confess,' he retorted._

_'Control or Freaks?' Sherlock shot back._

_Mycroft grinned._

_'Both.'_

_Sherlock allowed himself a small, answering grin once Mycroft turned and began to lead the way home once more._

_'Come on Sherlock, Mummy will be cross if we're late for tea.'_

_'His text book. That's how you knew his name wasn't it?'_

_'Of course.'_

_'And the mother?'_

_'The upper sixth have a trip coming soon, somewhere up north I believe. He had the permission form tucked inside it, but the top half had slipped out, which is convenient considering that's where all the contact details are. His home address, his mother and father's names and contact details were both there, including work numbers. If their mother knew he was abusive, chances are she wouldn't have listed him, but she did. White and Son's is a small firm in town, I've seen it. It was one of the places I considered for work experience, as an alternative if I wasn't able to swing_ Linklaters _. The only lawyers employed are the titular Brian White and his three sons Isaac, George and Jonathon. Besides, Ms Tucker doesn't earn a lawyer's salary, as seen by the state of Shane's shoes, which are a couple years old and too small for him, or James' trousers, which are hand-me-downs. This would make her one of the two other employees there – the receptionist or the paralegal. I know for a fact that the receptionist is a woman of Indian decent approaching her 70s, seeing as James and Shane have rather Anglo-Saxon features, the odds were that it was the paralegal.'_

_'The father?'_

_'The phone number had a Scottish area code, Edinburgh to be exact, 131. He also works in an establishment named Tucker Lawyers, not incredibly imaginative, but there you are.'_

_Sherlock nodded._

_'Assuming he is 'Tucker' we can assume that he is a lawyer rather than a paralegal or something thereabout. The father's details included both a work and home number?'_

_'Yes.'_

_'Which means they're living in different countries, so the chances of them still being married are lessened… but not entirely impossible. He could split his time between the office and home. He could have inherited the firm.'_

_Mycroft smiled._

_'Very true. But you need to watch for tells as well, whilst you're revealing what you know. That's the hard part,' he said. 'Their reaction to their father was negative. Not a good relationship, significantly more so than your average head-butting between father and sons. They seemed to not only hate him, but fear him too. It seemed most likely that this was the result of abuse, of them or their mother I couldn't tell, but both leaves its mark on the child. Their parents live in different countries and it's likely the father was abusive, I'd wagered that they'd separated and it paid off.'_

_Sherlock agreed._

_'Why would she list him if he was abusive?' he asked._

_Mycroft shrugged._

_'Court order,' he suggested. 'Obligation. Perhaps she's a believer of the 'a boy needs his father, no matter what' philosophy. Perhaps she blames herself for the abuse, not him. Perhaps she didn't know he abused them. Or perhaps a combination of some or all of that. I can't tell from the facts I have.'_

_Sherlock nodded his understanding._

_'And the cat and dog fur was on their uniform. White on the leg but no higher. Dog. Small. Ginger both on the trousers and sleeves, Cat.' he finished off. 'Obvious.'_

_'It all is,' Mycroft replied, opening the door for him. 'You just need to practice. Don't make too big a leap in judgement. Never theorise without data because you will, without fail, end up twisting facts to suit theories, rather than theories to suit facts. And most importantly, learn from your mistakes.'_

_Sherlock grinned._

_'I can do that.'_

* * *

Strong right hooks seemed to be a hereditary trait, if the ringing in Sherlock's ears was anything to go by.

Mycroft was on his knees, by his side, not a second later.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock muttered, as he helped him sit up.

He dabbed gingerly at his tender lip, and found a thin film of bright red blood coating his fingers when he pulled them back.

He scoffed.

'Would you look at that,' he murmured, smirking as he lifted them up to show his brother. 'We match. Blood brothe- Mycroft?'

With a low growl, Mycroft rose from the dirt.

'Mycroft?' Sherlock tried again, but his brother didn't seem to hear him.

Laying there, in the dirt, Sherlock watch eyed wide eyed as his brother, his stupid, fat, lazy, annoying, dull as mud, never-lay-a-hand-on-anybody big brother, stalked over to his father and, without so much as the illusion of hesitation, pulled back his fist and punched him hard in the nose.

'Christ!' their father howled, as he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Mycroft dropped down beside him, grabbed a hold of his collar, and promptly punched him again.

Scrambling to his feet, Sherlock ran over to the pair and, wrapping his arms around his chest, pulled his brother off and back away from the old man, who was hissing and spitting on the ground.

'Don't you ever touch him again!' Mycroft snarled, struggling to break free from Sherlock's grasp to have another go at the brute. 'Do you hear me?! If you do, I will kill you myself! Just see if I don't!'

Their father, having staggered back to his feet with the haphazard aid of his driver (who was promptly ordered back to the car in no uncertain terms) spat in response, 'You ungrateful little bastard!'

'Gratitude?!' Mycroft laughed (almost hysterically, Sherlock thought), before redoubling his efforts to break free. 'I'll show you just how grateful I am- let go of me Sherlock!'

'I don't think that's wise,' Sherlock huffed, holding firm. 'Not when you may do something you'll regret.'

'I assure you, I won't regret it,' he hissed, glaring hatefully over at their father. 'I've waited  _years_  for this.'

'You're all talk now, aren't you?' their father scoffed (though somewhat nasally). 'Takes a real big man to act tough when he's being held back, doesn't it Mycroft? You weren't that brave yesterday, were you? Just the same snivelling waste of space you always were.'

Mycroft was shaking with rage in his arms, and by the time the old man had stopped talking, Sherlock had half a mind to not only release him, but race him to see who could reach the bastard first.

'Well,' Siger drawled, pocketing his bloodied handkerchief. 'Do you have nothing to say?'

With and almost inhuman display of control, Mycroft took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock whispered, loosening his hold.

'Let's go,' Mycroft growled in reply, glancing over his shoulder and nodding sharply, an assurance that he would not make any further attempts on their father's life. 'He's not worth it.'

With a nod of his own, Sherlock let his arms fall back to his sides.

For a moment longer, Mycroft lingered, glaring resentfully at the man who raised him, every muscle in his body tensed, before finally summoning the willpower to go and retrieve their luggage from the dirt.

'Running away are we?' Siger jeered as Mycroft shouldered his bag, after handing Sherlock his, and turned to walk again.

They made it all of six steps.

'You always have been a coward.'

Mycroft stopped dead.

'Excuse me?' he scoffed, turning around.

'You heard me, boy,' Siger sneered.

Chuckling quietly, Mycroft shook his head and, to Sherlock's growing alarm, drew closer to the man once more.

'Coward,' he mused. 'What an interesting definition you must have of that word, Father.'

'Mycroft,' Sherlock hissed, stepping closer as Mycroft stopped, not a foot from Siger (well within striking distance). 'Brother, let's go-'

'Shut up!' Siger spat, waving an irritated hand in Sherlock's general direction, like one would whilst swatting away a persistent fly. 'If he's got something to say. Let him say it.'

Sherlock glowered, but fell silent (for his brother's sake, not Siger's).

'Well, Mycroft,' the old man growled, drawing himself up to his full height. 'Speak.'

Mycroft merely smiled politely in the face of the brute's posturing.

'It's just, most people would consider a man who bullied, beat, humiliated and degraded a child, for years no less, infinitely more cowardly than the one who merely chose to walk away from a poisonous situation.'

'How dare you?!' Siger hissed, his meaty fists clenching tight at his sides.

'How dare I what, Father?' Mycroft wearily sighed. 'So much of what I say and do causes you insult. We must be specific.'

Sherlock subtly shifted his footing, so he was more ready to jump between the two of them, because their father looked just about ready to tackle Mycroft to the ground and strangle him with his bare hands.

But for the time being, he remained where he was.

Instead, he merely snapped between outraged huffs and puffs, 'How dare you insinuate that I…  _mistreated_  you?!'

Mycroft blinked.

'Did I insinuate that? I apologise,' he drawled. 'I meant to say it outright.'

'How dare you?!' Siger roared again, taking a step forward, so there was nose to nose. 'You filthy little liar. I did no such thing.'

The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upwards into a small, proud smiled, when Mycroft stood firm in response, making no move to back down this time.

'You didn't?' he calmly asked, lifting his chin up defiantly. 'So when you would strike me for not sitting straight, for dirtying my clothes, for talking to loudly, then not loud enough… that was what? Good parenting? Maybe it was, I couldn't say,' he shrugged. ' However when you would back me into a corner and scream at me, or when you'd throw things at me, when you would bloody my lip for crying, I dare say that was a little excessive.'

With a disgusted snarl, Siger stepped back and began to pace furiously, spitting the odd, 'How dare you?!' and 'Utter rot!' as Mycroft carried on.

'When you beat me until I couldn't move, until I bled, was that not abuse?' he asked, voice cold and hard as steel.

Pausing his pacing long enough to whirl around and jab a thick finger in Mycroft's direction, Siger snarled, 'You always have been a self-pitying little bastard. Everything I ever did to you was for your own benefit.'

Mycroft blinked.

'If you truly believe that,' he slowly replied, 'Then you are more deluded that I ever gave you credit for.'

With an angry scoff, Siger resumed his pacing.

'You have nothing to say?' Mycroft snapped, eye narrowed and blazing with quiet fury.

'You are being wilfully ignorant,' Siger snapped, fling a hand up in the air hopelessly. 'What more is there to be said?'

'Wilfully ignorant?!' Mycroft cried, before controlling himself one more.

'Alright,' he seethed, clenching and un-clenching his fist by his sides, 'Explain to me then, Father, when you would make me sleep in the yard - like the dog, how was that supposed to benefit me? Or when you would tell me it was  _my_  fault Mother left.'

Siger stopped dead at that, and Sherlock watched, wide eyed, as he slowly turned back around to face Mycroft, ice cold hatred burning bright in his beady, grey eyes.

Mycroft mirrored it, stepping closer himself.

'When you told me that there was something wrong with me, that I was broken, that I was poison and that's the reason she left and never came back for me, that was all for  ** _my_** benefit?'

'That,' Siger snarled, 'Was the truth.'

Mycroft fists clenched tight by his sides, but Siger took no notice as he stepped closer still.

'Now you listen here boy, and you listen well,' he murmured, dangerously calm. 'You can delude yourself with whatever stories help you sleep at night, but I never did lie to you. The truth hurts, and if you're not strong enough to take it, then I clearly should have schooled you harder.'

Mycroft angrily scoffed.

'You have something to say?' Siger growled, eyes narrowing dangerously in spite of his voice remaining quiet and seemingly calm.

Mycroft's mouth twisted into a disgusted smirk.

'I cannot believe that I spent so many years  _terrified_  of the mere thought of you,' he murmured, holding the old man's venomous gaze unflinchingly. 'Even yesterday, you held that power over me, and I can't understand it the slightest bit anymore, because now… now I see you for what you really are. A bitter, lonely,  _pathetic_  old man who ruined the one thing he ever gave a damn about, and simply couldn't take responsibility for it, not even to himself.'

With a snarl, Siger grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and jerked him forward roughly.

'Keep talking Mycroft,' he snarled, looming over his son. 'Keep talking, and just see what happens to you.'

Sherlock moved to intervene, only to be stilled by his brother's raised hand, a silent plea for inaction.

Muscles tense, ready to move when necessary, he relented to the request.

Without breaking the old man's gaze, Mycroft calmly replied, 'Mum didn't leave because of  _me_ , Father. She left because of  **you**. She left because of how you are and how you treated her, how you treated me. She left so my brother wouldn't have to be raised like that. She  ** _hates_**  you-'

He didn't even flinch when the back of their father's large hand struck his cheek with a loud crack.

Sherlock leapt into action, forcing the old man to release his brother (through a series of short jabs and kicks to vulnerable points), leaving him huffing furiously, but no worse off than before (he'd have loved to rip him limb from limb, but he got the impression Mycroft wanted to say more, and believed he had the right to do so to a living audience).

'I'm fine, Sherlock,' he chuckled, turning back to face Siger. 'It would appear the truth  _really does_  hurt.'

Siger's lips curled in a disgusted sneer.

'She never came back for you, did she?!' he panted, resuming his furious pacing once more, like a caged lion. 'If I'm such a menace, why did she leave you with me?'

Mycroft laughed.

'Because you wouldn't let her take me,' he answered. 'You fought for custody, took it to court and drew it all out until she was nearly bankrupt and  **had**  to give up. You threatened to take Sherlock.'

'And you're construing my fight to keep you as abuse?!' Siger scoffed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'It was a power play; an idiot could work that out,' he sneered. 'How do you get to a mother, through her children, elementary… and incredibly unoriginal.'

'She could have come back,' Siger hissed. 'If she cared so much about you, she would have come back for you. But she didn't, did she Mycroft? She didn't come back for you! You weren't good enough for her to come back for!'

Mycroft rolled his eyes again.

'As amusing a display of  _projection_  as that was,' he drawled, 'It is worth noting how intensely grateful I am to her, for doing the smart thing and staying away.'

Both Sherlock and Siger turned to stare at him, eyes wide and shocked.

A weary smile twitched at Mycroft lips.

'I never thought I would get away from you,' he murmured, almost to himself. 'It just seemed like it would never end. If she had come back, to be there for me, it wouldn't have. Sherlock would have had to have grown up like I did, under your thumb. Heaven knows, he's far more defiant than I ever was, perhaps you would have treated him even worse. So for that, I am glad. It would have ruined Mummy, I know it would have. She would cry when you weren't there, Father. She would cry for hours, and it was because of you, what you had said or what you had done or threatened to do. She would of grown even more resentful of you. Perhaps she would have grown to resent us as well, for keeping her there, we'll never know. But she got away, and the price may have been high… maybe it wasn't, but either way, I am glad that she did. If she hadn't done that, or if she'd come back, I would have been responsible for that happening. None of us would have ever escaped.'

For the first time throughout the entire exchange (Sherlock suspected that it may very well be for the first time, full stop), Siger Holmes was struck absolutely speechless.

Mycroft took advantage of this.

Readjusting his shirt and blazer, he calmly announced, 'If your plan is to try and convince me that everything I know to be true - isn't, and that you are the innocent out of the whole ordeal, then I really think it is time we go our separate ways… in fact, I think it's time we do that regardless… Sherlock?'

'Past time,' Sherlock replied with a sharp nod.

Mycroft smiled as their father began to bluster indignantly at his utter loss of control.

'Very well,' he coolly replied, turning his attention back to the old man once more. 'Father, I want you to know that you are well and truly dead to me. The next time I am contacted in regards to you, it had better be in order to inform me of the time and location of your funeral. Also, Mother's restraining order is still valid, I had it made permanent. So it would be in your best interest to call off this crusade you have with tracking her down. If you don't, she will follow through a press charges, I promise you. My brother is to also be left alone, unless he is the one to make contact.'

'I won't,' Sherlock firmly announced.

Mycroft nodded sharply.

'There you are then. Is that all very clear to you, Father?'

'How dare you?!' Siger snarled furiously, lunging forward grabbing Mycroft's shirt again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'It really isn't all that daring,' he drawled. 'You can strike me all you like, it's not going to change those conditions.'

Siger's lips curled even further back, making his snarl appear almost animalistic, but made no move to act any further.

Mycroft merely arched his brow in response.

'Consider this your final warning - if you disregard my orders, I will be coming after you,' he announced, his voice calm, quiet and yet incredibly intimidating. 'And that would be a decision you would live to regret, although perhaps, not for very long. I am a very dangerous man to make an enemy of. For your own sake, take my word for it.'

For a long, tense moment, Mycroft held their father's gaze, meeting the old man's silent fury and hatred with a steady resolve that only served to emphasize just how serious he was.

Finally, with a disgusted snarl, Siger released his hold on Mycroft's shirt and stepped away.

'You were never worth the trouble,' he spat, his face twisting into a hateful sneer.

Mycroft merely inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.

And with one last disgusted glare, Siger Holmes spun on his heel, marched back to his car, and drove out of his sons' life for the last time.

Mycroft sighed as he and Sherlock watched the Rolls Royce speed down the dirt road, fading into nothing but the clichéd spec upon the horizon.

'So that is how it all ends,' he mused as Sherlock stepped up beside him. '' _Not with a bang, but a whimper'_  indeed.'

Sherlock frowned.

'That wasn't a bang?'

Mycroft chuckled, and glanced over at him.

'More of a pop,' he replied with a half-hearted shrug. 'You'd know a bang when you see one. Trust me.'

Sherlock grimaced.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft murmured, turning to face him, 'What you did back there, was not very wise.'

Sherlock ducked his head and scowled at the hard packed dirt beneath their feet.

'He was being stupid,' he grumbled in response.

'He split your lip with a single punch,' Mycroft reasoned. 'What would you have done if he wasn't content with just that? You need to learn when to pick your battles.'

Sherlock's scowl darkened.

'I know how to pick battles, Mycroft,' he grit out.

Mycroft sighed.

Rubbing tiredly at his bruised face, Mycroft asked, 'And what aspect of this particular encounter made it worthy of battle, pray tell?'

'He attacked you yesterday,' Sherlock hissed, his eyes snapping up to meet Mycroft's surprised ones. 'He attacked you, I could see all the signs, he didn't even try to hide them. I was going to leave it until we got to the air field, because you were so worked up about an encounter in the car – but then he started threatening you and belittling you,  _in front of me_! I lost my cool, I admit, but he deserved more than the earful I gave him.'

Mycroft sighed, reaching over and squeezing Sherlock's shoulder.

'I don't need you fighting for me, Sherlock,' he murmured.

'Ordinarily, that's true,' Sherlock retorted. 'But that's because  _normally_  you can take care of them yourself.'

'Exactl-'

'But you weren't, Mycroft!' he snapped. 'You were just letting him walk all over you. In hindsight, I understand why, but he had no right to and somebody needed to say so.'

'Sherlock,' his brother sighed. 'That really doesn't matter-'

'It matters to me!' Sherlock shouted, surprising himself as much as his brother.

Mycroft promptly fell absolutely silent and stared at Sherlock like he was seeing him for the first time.

Sherlock averted his eyes, before continuing through gritted teeth, 'I was not just going to sit there and let him get away with treating you like that, for hurting you like he has, without doing anything.'

Squaring his jaw, he lifted his head up again and firmly announced, 'I don't regret it.'

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing, instead choosing to fix him with a calculating stare.

Lifting his chin defiantly, Sherlock met his eye resolutely and added, without any shade of doubt, 'You would have done the same for me.'

Slowly, a small smile began to spread across Mycroft's battered face in response.

'Yes,' he murmured, shaking his head 'Of course I would have.'

Sherlock sighed, and allowed a small smile of his own to creep into existence.

'I think it's time we get going,' Mycroft finally announced, pulling his mobile from his blazer pocket and tapping it back to life, only to frown down at it.

'Have you got a signal?' he asked, glancing up at Sherlock, who obediently found his own and discovered that he too, appeared to be out of range.

'No,' he sighed, scrubbing tiredly at his face.

Mycroft glanced heavenwards, smiling disbelievingly.

'What now?' Sherlock asked.

Shaking his head again, Mycroft stooped to retrieve their bags from the dirt one last time, handed Sherlock his, and announced, 'Well I suppose we're just going to have to walk until we find one.'

Sherlock grimaced.

Mycroft's smile widened further still.

'Come along, Brother-Mine.'

For a little while, they walked in silence, both trying to digest everything that had happened minutes earlier. The airing of all that dirty laundry that had been left to fester for so many years,  _decades_ , it wasn't something that normal people took in their stride, and for once in their lives, it would seem that Sherlock and Mycroft were not the exception to the rule.

Sherlock simply couldn't believe that it had taken him so long to piece it all together. He should have been able to work it out the second he opened the door to find the big brother that his mother would always become so teary over. He should have known! How could he have missed it?!

'Sherlock,' Mycroft murmured, glancing over at him, his brow furrowed with concern. 'Are you alright?'

Sherlock's scoffed.

' **You**  are asking  **me**  if I'm alright?' he asked incredulously.

The crease between his brother's brows deepened.

'You were just assaulted,' he pointed out. 'It seems a reasonable question, no?'

Shaking his head, Sherlock smiled bitterly and quietly murmured, 'I'm fine.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and slowly replied, 'I'm not entirely sure that I believe you.'

Sherlock scoffed again.

Mycroft sighed.

'What's on your mind, Brother?' he asked.

Sherlock bowed his head briefly, wracking his brains, searching for words that would  _begin_  to express the turmoil going on inside his head.

'It was all true then,' he finally murmured, glancing up again, feeling utterly numb.

Mycroft merely nodded.

Sherlock's heart sank. He'd known of course, but the solid confirmation eradicated any childish hope he had of it all being a big misunderstanding on his behalf, and the world would obligingly go back to spinning on its axis.

'The scars?' he hesitantly asked.

Mycroft grimaced, but answered regardless.

'Father was  _President of Pop_  back in Eton,' he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 'He knew how to wield a cane, and was rather fond of doing so.'

Sherlock winced.

'And the Pneumonia, it was from when he'd make you sleep in the yard?'

Mycroft smiled reminiscently.

'Yes,' he murmured. 'Only after the divorce, of course. Mummy would have never allowed it. I was alright for the first few years. He had this dog you see, a massive, fearsome looking beast, Neapolitan Mastiff, the biggest dog I have ever seen and was nothing but muscle.'

Sherlock's eyes widened with horror.

Mycroft laughed.

'I called him  _Nanny_ ,' he chuckled. 'He was a most accommodating beast. I fear I was somewhat of a pup to him. Fortunately, that meant I was allowed to sleep in his kennel with him whenever Father locked me out for the night. Of course, he passed away after a few years, an underlying heart condition I was told. The next time I was  _put out_ , it was raining and without his warmth, I fell sick. I told Father, but he was convinced I was putting it on for attention and repeated the exercise until I stopped  _pretending_. Of course, after a week or so the maid found me feverish, struggling to breathe and promptly became hysterical.

'It happened again, and again he didn't believe me. I was 12 at the time and tried medicating myself with paracetamol and the like, predictably with little success. The maid clued on again, took me to hospital herself and was fired for it.'

'And the third time?' Sherlock asked, eyes wide.

Mycroft smiled reminiscently and replied, 'The third time I kept it to myself and allowed myself to collapse at school instead. Well, he could hardly fire the teachers, could he? Although, again, he was quite angry about it all.'

'And that's why you didn't tell anybody,' Sherlock murmured, eyes wide. 'When you caught it with us. Because you were worried Mummy wouldn't believe you either?'

Mycroft sighed and with a small shrug, replied, 'Not that. I just… didn't want to be a bother. I was older and stronger from the last bout, and whenever it happened Father would make such a fuss and people would get fired or shouted at. I'd hoped it would go away on its own if I gave it time, and everybody would be none the wiser,' he chuckled, 'Unfortunately I overexerted myself keeping up the pretence of good-health and forgot to drink enough water.'

'That was stupid,' Sherlock said firmly.

Mycroft nodded.

'It wasn't a shining moment of foresight for me, no,' he replied, before glancing over at him and smiling. 'I haven't had it since however. Surely that must count for something.'

Sherlock merely continued to stare at him, eyes wide and horrified.

'It's all so obvious, in retrospect,' he whispered.

Mycroft chuckled again.

'These things often are,' he murmured. 'Unfortunately, those that are closest to us are often the hardest to see.'

Sherlock sighed.

'That is no excuse,' he murmured, bowing his head. 'I apologise. I should have spotted it earlier.'

He glanced up as the warm pressure of his brother's hand, squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

'You were a child, Brother,' he said, without a hint of the malice Sherlock believed he probably deserved. 'You weren't to know.'

'Wasn't I?' Sherlock asked, his voice heavy with guilt. 'I saw the signs. Over the years, there were things that didn't sit right, things that I noticed: the flinching; the nightmares; the scars. But I reasoned it all away.'

Mycroft sighed, and squeezed his shoulder again.

'It is alright.'

'No it isn't,' Sherlock argued. 'It's worse than ignorance. I saw the facts, and I twisted them into a theory I was more comfortable with.'

Tilting his chin up, meeting his brother's gaze, he solemnly announced, 'I was an idiot, and I apologise for any additional abuse that you suffered at my hands as a result of that.'

The corners of Mycroft's lips twitched upwards into a small, but uncharacteristically honest smile.

Shaking his head, he merely murmured in response, 'You've always been so dramatic.'

Sherlock frowned.

'Brother,' he sighed, his hand dropping back to his side. 'You are not, and never have been, an idiot.'

Sherlock opened his mouth only to be cut off by Mycroft's raised hand, a silent plea for quiet.

'Your ignoring the truth is not only understandable, but also worked exactly to what I wanted.'

Sherlock's brows knitted together in a confused frown.

'But I was horrible to you,' he said. 'I never stopped being horrible to you, not really. I dedicated all of my energy to making you feel unwelcome, for months. And even when we found some sort of common ground, I didn't make any real effort to rectify it. I made you cry… more than once. I made sure you were so uncomfortable around the house that you would avoid it. I bullied you for no better reason than childish pettiness and some misplaced belief that you were out to steal the mother that it turns out, I had stolen myself. How could that be what you  _wanted_?'

Sherlock watched with ever-increasing confusion and frustration as his brother's incredulity seemed to grow with each word he uttered.

'Do you really think that?' he finally murmured, seemingly perplexed. 'My-my, Brother.  _'What a magnificent puzzle you are'_.'

'Stop it,' Sherlock sighed. 'I'm being serious.'

'As am I,' Mycroft replied. 'You seem to believe that you've carried on Father's work. Well believe me, you have not. For one thing, you haven't the muscle.'

'But-'

'Enough Sherlock,' Mycroft sharply ordered, holding up his hand again. 'You were a child. It is not unheard of for children to be resentful of additions to the family, especially, I would expect, when they are robbed of the expected compensation of becoming the  _eldest_. You were robbed, you were resentful, I grew to understand that and bear no ill-feelings towards you for it.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I don't want you to just accept it, Mycroft,' he snapped.

'Well I do,' Mycroft retorted. 'As it is, I prefer that you treated me the way you did, rather than the way Mummy did.'

Sherlock's eyes widened.

'What did she do?!' he cried, wracking his mind for shreds of evidence that might expose any abuse his brother's had suffered at their mother's hands as well.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'She didn't mistreat me Sherlock,' he sighed, cutting Sherlock's frenzied recall short.

'Then what?'

Scrubbing tiredly at his face, Mycroft slowly replied, 'Between Father's note, and what I had unwisely let slip in moments of distress, she managed to piece together what my time with him had been like. She felt guilty.'

Sherlock frowned with confusion.

'Of course she did,' he murmured, narrowing his eyes unconsciously, in hopes that it would help reveal his brother's meaning. 'She no doubt felt she ought to have protected you.'

Mycroft nodded.

'That's exactly how she felt,' he said.

'And that's wrong?'

'Not at all,' he replied. 'But her method of remedying that mistreatment was to handle me with kid-gloves from then on. To this day, she still treats me like I might fall to pieces if she were to raise her voice around me.'

Frowning, Sherlock thought back and couldn't think of a single encounter he'd witnessed, where this was not true. Even when she and Mycroft disagreed on something (usually something to do with him), she would rarely allow herself to display her frustration any more overtly than an exasperated sigh.

'Of course, I don't blame her,' he continued. 'Truth be told, I'm quite careful with how I act towards her myself.'

Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft smiled sadly and explained, 'There was a time where we  _both_  endured Father's temper, Brother-Mine. I am also told I quite resemble him. I would hate to stir up memories for her, don't look so appalled, Brother, it is a legitimate concern. Regardless, it does begin to grate after a while, being treated with such care. Sometimes I still feel like the scared little boy that got dumped on her doorstep because of it.'

He glanced up at Sherlock and smiled.

'So it's always been something of a relief, to have you there, throwing you weight around, what little of it there was, dancing on my last nerve, enjoying every moment of it. It helped.'

'Helped?' Sherlock echoed, utterly confused.

Mycroft nodded.

'You have to understand, Sherlock, when I met you, it had been drilled into me that defiance would be swiftly met with severe consequences,' he calmly replied. 'I was scared to speak up, to act out, to question those around me… my  _betters_.'

Sherlock grimaced at the term, which only made Mycroft laugh.

'And then I met you, and it was just decided that we were going to be  _archenemies_ ,' he chuckled. 'You may have been half my age, but you were still challenging enough for me to struggle for a little while, in the beginning.'

'That's what I'm apologising for!' Sherlock cried with frustration.

'But I needed that struggle, Sherlock,' Mycroft cried back. 'Otherwise I would have been scared forever. That little campaign of yours, it forced me to stand up for myself. And when I did, to my shock, I didn't get in trouble for it. You and I could argue, and it was just something brothers did. I didn't get the blame, I didn't get hit, I didn't get sent back to Father. It was like a weight being lifted, because it was the first solid proof that things had really changed.'

'Mummy would have never sent you back,' Sherlock firmly announced.

Mycroft shrugged.

'People say things that prove to be false all the time,' he replied. 'As you well know. She may have not wanted to, but I couldn't be sure at the time. I didn't really know her any more, people change. Perhaps she wouldn't have wanted me if I stirred up too much trouble, or too many memories. Also, keep in mind, Father had been telling me for years that she had left because of me. '

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the thought.

'Either way,' Mycroft calmly continued, 'It's very easy to make promises so long as they go untested. But we tested them, you and I, and it quickly became clear that she was quite content to let me stay no matter what, after all.'

'She would have never-'

'I know that now,' Mycroft announced, cutting him off.

Sherlock sighed.

'You need to understand,' Mycroft murmured, clutching his shoulder once again, 'You've nothing to apologise for. You may be a brat sometimes,' he smirked, ' _A lot_  of the time. But you are my bratty little brother, and that's exactly how I like you. Do you understand?'

Sherlock frowned.

Glancing up at him, he slowly nodded.

'I think so,' he murmured, a smirk of his own tugging at his lips, '…You're a masochist.'

Mycroft blinked, before letting loose a loud bark of laughter.

'Perhaps,' he chuckled, shaking his head as he stooped down and retrieved their bags from the dirt again. 'It certainly would explain a lot.'

Slowly, Sherlock's smirk spread into a small smile.

'Anymore questions,' Mycroft asked, pausing to check his mobile again only to find it still without a signal.

Sherlock shrugged.

'Not many,' he admitted. 'Although… I always have been curious-'

'What did I do?' Mycroft finished for him, nodding slowly. 'I am frankly shocked it has taken you so long to ask.'

Sherlock sniffed.

'I assumed you wouldn't tell me,' he grumbled. 'It must have been catastrophic. Did you do it on purpose? Was it illegal? Did you try to murder him?'

Mycroft laughed.

'Good lord no,' he replied. 'It was quite the anti-climax actually. You'll be very disappointed.'

'Well?'

Smiling indulgently, Mycroft replied, 'A boy in my class, Michael Daniels, kissed me. I kissed him back. A teacher saw and quite excitedly told our parents. Father would not bear the disgrace of having a  _Fairy_  for a son, so he finally conceded defeat and dumped me on Mummy's doorstep.'

Sherlock's jaw dropped.

'Oh dear, I've broken you,' Mycroft chuckled to himself. 'Perhaps I should have made something up.'

'Of  ** _all_**  the things he could have chosen,  ** _THAT_**  is what sealed the deal for him?!' he cried, outraged.

Mycroft chuckled.

'I thought you had done something serious!' Sherlock cried.

'It had been seven years,' he replied simply. 'It had become clear that keeping me wasn't going to bring Mummy back. I think it was the last straw. He gave up and just got rid of me.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I'm hardly complaining,' Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head and muttering, 'No you wouldn't, would you?'

Mycroft chuckled again, before glancing back at his mobile and letting out a quiet hum of satisfaction.

Holding it up for Sherlock to see, he cheerfully announced, 'It would appear that we finally have our signal.'

** THE END. **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally finished it! :D I can't believe it.
> 
> I really hope you all liked it and I would really like to thank everybody again who has followed and reviewed, or simply stumbled across this story in a moment of boredom and decided to start reading. I really can't say how much I appreciate your interest and to the reviewers, your incredibly kind words. Just let me say thank you so much, you really have made my day time and time again, so once more, thank you :D


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